A Reckoning
by librarianmum
Summary: So, this is the life of Molly Hooper. Humble laboratory assistant, lonely cat owner, friend, partner-in-crime, companion, sometimes lover...just an ordinary woman who always mattered.
1. Chapter 1

**Here we go - I've decided that it's time Molly had her say... This is very much from Molly's POV, and it's my first Sherlock/Molly story (should that be Sherlolly?), so please be kind!**

**Couple of notes: This was previously published on another site and various comments were made about differences between canon Molly and my Molly. So, just to confirm, this story does (or may) differ from canon in the following ways: 1. Molly is roughly five years younger than Sherlock and some nine years younger than John. 2. She is not a qualified pathologist at the beginning of this story – and there is a specific reason for that which will become clear as the story goes along.**

**Oh, and by the way, I mean no insult to the noble profession of librarianship, being one myself – a medical librarian, in fact!**

* * *

Chapter 1

She could never quite remember when he had first breezed airily into her life, as if that was precisely where he belonged.

That seemed…odd. She should recall the exact date, the exact moment. Just like the way people often said "do you remember where you were when Kennedy was shot?" Or when Elvis died, or when the Berlin Wall came down, or when those ill-fated jet planes flew impossibly low over the New York skyline on a beautiful September day. That was _right_ – it _should_ have been as memorable as that. There should be a plaque somewhere, saying that _this_ – _this_! – was the day and the hour and the second when Sherlock Holmes walked into her life and changed it irrevocably. For better or for worse… No. Definitely for better, no matter what happened later.

It disturbed her that, seated in a snug, low-ceilinged living room, her armchair pulled up to the wood burner, over thirty years later, she couldn't remember something so _important_.

_It's your age_, John would have said, in his usual brisk but comforting manner. She could almost hear his voice, see the twinkle in his eyes, the laughter lines in that worn, lined, beloved face. _Comes to us all, Molly – even a bright young thing like you_.

But these gaps in her memory trivialised the event that had changed her life forever, and that _hurt_. A cliché, but it was true. After all, it shouldn't have happened in the first place. A decision - a sudden whim – without which she might never have met him. Might have lived her bland, unassuming happy little life without knowing anything about him apart from what she read in the newspapers. And how might _his_ life have played out if they hadn't met? What would have happened to Moriarty, to Irene Adler, to John and Mary Watson?

Almost every day since, she had wondered what her life might have been like if she hadn't walked into that laboratory on that certain day…

* * *

Molly Amelia Hooper was the child of doctors – from a long line of doctors - who had failed to live up to the expectations of her ancestry. Not that her mum and dad had minded at all; they had simply wanted their only child to be happy. And it _had_ been a happy childhood, and Molly had grown from a solemn brown-eyed little girl into a slightly less solemn young woman with very few psychological scars to speak of. She was a little shy, particularly of men, probably courtesy of the old-fashioned and very ordinary girls' secondary school that had nurtured her. Nevertheless, she'd been liked at University for her quiet, kind ways and her surprisingly robust sense of humour. She didn't have many friends, but those she had were loyal and possibly equally unworldly.

She'd emerged with a handful of GCSEs and A-levels in a variety of subjects – a good, if not particularly remarkable, student. She'd been an 'all-rounder' without a strong aptitude for anything except chemistry, art and netball. Her choice of first degree had been easy – a BSc in Chemistry – but she struggled to know what to do after that. She had insufficient qualifications to be a doctor and no aptitude for the profession in any case. The drug industry might have been a possibility, but she distrusted the commercial world. In the end, with no better idea at hand, she'd taken an MSc in Library Science. From that, she'd worked in an NHS library in a desultory manner for a few months, before deciding that she actually hated librarianship. She stuck it out for a couple of years, guiltily aware of the money that her parents had spent on her education so far.

By twenty-five, Molly was kicking around in a job she didn't much like and wondering what to do with her life. Her beloved father had died of cancer six months' previously, and this devastating loss had left her with a stronger sense of her own mortality and a desire for a direction to her life. Applying for the vacancy of assistant technical officer at her hospital - Bart's - had been a pure whim, and it was no surprise that she didn't impress the interviewers with her panicky, unprepared answers to their questions. The job went to a far better candidate, so she really _shouldn't _have ended up working at the laboratory in Bart's a mere year later.

The fact that she _did_ stemmed from her developing interest in the role. It seemed to suit her - she'd always been reasonably good at chemistry and she had a strong stomach for gory sights and an interest in the processes and aetiologies of death. She'd looked into the career further and had applied for another post, this time successfully, at the North Middlesex Hospital. With some on-the-job training and a couple of courses on advanced chemistry and introductory pathology under her belt, Molly was a better prospect the following year. When Bart's pathology laboratory found itself unexpectedly and critically short of assistants, she was sent over to help out temporarily.

She remembered that she'd had her hair cut recently into a longish shaggy bob – a style that had looked great on a magazine model but had, inevitably, ended up looking lank and unkempt on Molly. She recalled that this had made her feel more than usually self-conscious – she could still _feel_ that tight, prickling sensation of discomfort - and that she'd tried to compensate by wearing a top that was a little too low cut and a little too tight, and had _then _tried to compromise for _that_ by wearing a knee-length wool skirt that was supposed to make her look older and more responsible. She also remembered that Toby, officially the Kitten from Hell that had invaded her life a few weeks before, had scratched her hand just before she dashed out of the door, and that the cut had bled through the plaster on the Tube. And she also remembered that she had tripped over an unexpected step as she entered the laboratory, while trying to dab her hand with a crumpled tissue…and that the resulting stumble had made the tall man at the far end of the laboratory glance up impatiently from his microscope.

"Um. Sorry," she offered, sheepishly, but the man had already turned back to his work, as if she were of no consequence. "Um, are you Dr Stamford?"

"_Obviously_ not," was the acerbic response, delivered in a cultured, rather public school, baritone. The man didn't even look up.

_Why 'obviously not'?_ she wondered silently – at least, she was pretty sure she was silent, but even so, the man sighed as he continued studying a slide through the microscope and replied as if she had spoken aloud. "No staff badge, no white coat or scrubs. And I'm clearly not standing here expectantly waiting for a new employee to arrive, which I would be if I _were_ him and an unfamiliar person came in, clutching an introductory letter…which you appear to have bled on, by the way."

Only then did he look up, his eyes dropping to the letter in her hand, as if to confirm what he had already described. "What do you want with Stamford, anyway? No, wait – don't tell me…"

His oddly light-coloured eyes narrowed and he looked her up and down in a familiar way that would have been insulting if she hadn't found this strange man's behaviour so intriguing. "Twenty five – no, just turned twenty six. University educated, but your qualifications didn't get you very far. You've been working as a laboratory assistant for a year, but not here, although you'd like to, for sentimental reasons - _why_? _Ah_… a parent worked in this hospital at some point – your father, recently deceased, and you think you will remember him better if you work here."

His voice was neutral, the delivery monotone, almost as if he were thinking aloud to himself rather than addressing her. There was not a scrap of emotion in it and no sympathy, not even over her father's death.

His eyes ran over her hair and clothes and his lips twisted into a nasty smirk that sent a chill down her spine. "A cat lover, single, and it's not hard to see why. The top doesn't suit you – it was designed for women with more…visible attributes, and makes you look too thin. The skirt ages you. Oh, and it was a mistake to cut your hair in that style – but you already know that. As for why you're here – easy! You've been sent from your usual place of employment to cover the staff shortages. Your boss is an old university friend of Stamford, which is why he asked him for help."

His eyes glazed over for a moment and then slid away from her to focus back on his work. Later, she recalled that it was as if he had abruptly lost interest - almost as if he had severed her from his vision with a pair of scissors. At the time, she wondered, uneasily, whether there was something not quite normal about him.

She opened her mouth to reply, but her voice seemed to have deserted her. Belatedly, she noticed that he was dressed quite oddly for a laboratory worker, in a dark suit that was, even to her untutored eyes, well-cut and probably bespoke. His hair was at odds with his neat appearance, being over-long and untidy with wild curls that he kept pushing out of his face. This seemed to fit the theory that he might be an escaped psychiatric patient who shouldn't be in here at all…although where would he have got his clothes from? They seemed to fit him quite well, and yet they seemed old fashioned for a man who looked to be only a few years older than her.

Almost against her will, she found herself drifting nearer to him, trying to pretend that she was interested in his work. In any case, he didn't appear to be aware of her perusal or, if he was, he didn't care. He replaced one slide with another, his large hands moving with a strange delicacy. They were long-fingered and well-shaped, but the tips were stained yellow. A smoker. He had a chemical scar on the knuckle of his index finger and a long thin scar snaking across the top of his thin wrist – a knife cut, perhaps? Her initial thought was this might be a cack-handed attempt at suicide or self-harm, but that theory didn't seem to fit very well with the man before her. He was, she suspected, far too clever not to kill himself effectively, if that was his aim. Something else then – a fight, perhaps?

His hands fascinated her. They were pale, the skin almost translucent with the blue veins very prominent. In fact, from what she could see of his face, it was also abnormally pale. Rather morbidly, she thought that he looked a bit like the corpse of a young drug addict that she had recently been asked by the grieving parents to dress in a new suit for his funeral. And, just like that young man, he was overly thin, almost skeletal…

She glanced around the quiet laboratory, a little nervously. Should she call someone? If he was a drug addict, and possibly a deranged one at that, shouldn't she make sure he was removed from the premises, assuming she could find a security guard? She'd visited the pathology department during her failed interview, but wasn't sure she remembered the layout.

He gave another sigh and she jumped. "_Not_ an addict. _Or_ a patient. That's what you were thinking, wasn't it? That I'd broken in here to steal drugs?" He looked up, those oddly pale blue eyes mocking her. She could see that they were clear and sharply intelligent. Not the dull, lifeless eyes of an addict.

"Um," she responded, awkwardly, apparently unable to say anything else. He rolled his eyes and went back to his work. Her eyes dropped to the worktable. There were a series of test tubes and corresponding slides, each containing a drop of liquid.

"It's dirt," he told her, suddenly. "Taken from three pairs of shoes and boots belonging to a man who has been accused of raping and murdering his niece. She was found half-buried in deserted factory grounds."

"And this proves that he was there?"

"_No_." He glanced up at her again, but this time there was no mockery in his eyes – in fact, she was surprised to see an open, interested expression on his pale face. "I'm not working for the police – not on this occasion, anyway. It's a private client. The man's a convicted paedophile with a penchant for teenage girls, and so naturally, with their usual lack of imagination, the police have arrested him. But they're wrong. He didn't kill her – in fact, he's successfully kept well away from _all _girls since his release; he's scared of going back in, since he can expect more brutal treatment from the other inmates... There's a particular chemical in the soil of those grounds and my findings prove that it's not present on any of the man's footwear."

She noted that his deep voice had lost some of its arrogant quality. He was talking to her in an informative, enthusiastic manner – a teacher to a particularly able pupil. He resembled nothing so much as the archetypal mad professor, particularly with the hair, but oddly this put her at ease enough to speak freely.

"How do you know he's given you all his shoes? Perhaps he threw away the ones he was wearing when she died, or burned them?"

He shook his head. "No opportunity. And he's on a low income – unemployment benefits with the occasional bit of labouring, cash-in-hand temporary work where no one needs to know his history. He can't afford more than three pairs of shoes. He can't even afford to pay _me_ – I contacted him because I want to get involved in the case."

"Why?"

He looked at her as if she was mad. "Because there's a _murderer_ to find, of course. And once I've convinced Lestrade that they've got the wrong man in custody, he might let me see the files."

Before she could answer or ask who Lestrade was, the double doors at the far end of the laboratory opened, and an overweight, middle-aged and rather sweaty man hurried into the room, looking harried.

"Are you Miss Hooper? I'm _so_ sorry, meant to be here on time, but at least you found your way into the place… Where's my rota? Damn… Please come on in, anyway, and I'll show you where everything is… I see you've already met our resident pest." Dr Stamford grinned at the young man, who scowled back at him and turned pointedly back to his experiments. "His name is Sherlock Holmes, if you're prepared to believe that. Please just ignore him – he seems to come with the furniture, but you'll soon find that he's harmless if left alone – relatively speaking."

On this strange last comment, he went back through the double-doors into what she assumed was the morgue. As she moved to follow him, a voice came from behind her.

"You'll get on better with him if you stop opening and closing your mouth like a fish. Despite appearances, he's not actually a fool. Apart from the fact that it makes you look more stupid than you actually are, it's a deeply unattractive mannerism, particularly on you."

She flushed, suddenly angry, and turned back to direct a glare at him. However, the man – Sherlock Holmes – was intent on his work and didn't seem to notice her. Before she could turn away again, he spoke once more. "By the way, there _will _be a job available here by the end of today – the assistant who claims to be off with gastroenteritis has in fact gone for an interview for a job as an air hostess which, judging by her physical attributes and general air-headedness, she is likely to get. Stamford will be desperate, so if you offer to transfer, he'll take you on immediately."

After a further moment's hesitation, during which she tried and failed to form a suitable reply, she turned away silently and followed Dr Stamford. At the door, she glanced back again, but Sherlock Holmes didn't raise his head.


	2. Chapter 2

**Forgot to add disclaimers to the first chapter, so here they are now. Characters are the property of ACD and their modern incarnations property Moffatt/Gatiss/Thompson/BBC.**

**And I'm by no means a chemist, which will become very obvious! Forgive me my errors!**

**In this chapter, Molly learns a little more about Sherlock.**

* * *

Chapter 2

Molly soon came to recognise that the world's only consulting detective had three distinct moods, and they were so different that she began to think of them as three separate personalities or three 'Sherlocks'. On any given day it was impossible to predict which 'Sherlock' would walk through the door.

Her favourite was 'Professor Sherlock', and unfortunately that was the rarest of the manifestations, but on those occasions, he was happy to answer her questions or describe what he was doing in an enthusiastic, informative manner. He would even use her as a sounding board for some of his theories. It was clear, however, that she was not required to answer or contribute to his thought processes in any way – he would ask the question and then answer it to his own satisfaction almost immediately. In fact, she had the distinct impression that he wasn't _always_ aware exactly who he was addressing – she sometimes wondered whether he would stop talking if she propped a corpse up in her chair and left the room.

Still, it gave her a satisfaction to see him apparently contented, and his theories were interesting, even if she didn't always understand the leaps in his logic. At least she understood most of his experiments. He was an excellent chemist, naturally, but she at least had an undergraduate degree in the subject, and it gave her a certain amount of pride when she was occasionally able to predict what compounds he would need for his experiments or even assist him on some of them.

More usually, she would encounter 'Manic Sherlock', who would swan in at all hours to charm favours out of her, such as spare body parts to experiment on or a chemical he couldn't easily obtain elsewhere (she had to admit that he was fairly successful, so far). This Sherlock would rush over her like a gale-force wind, leaving her helpless in his wake. He would fire out compliments and mild insults in equal measure at high speed, apparently unaware of their impact on her. He would leave almost as abruptly as he arrived once he'd got what he wanted, leaving her shaken and unable to focus on her work.

But even _that_ was better than 'Dark Sherlock'. It didn't happen all that often, fortunately, but occasionally he'd hang around in the laboratory, either focusing doggedly on one experiment for several hours or slumping in a chair with no occupation, glaring at nothing in particular. On those occasions, she knew better than to approach him. If she did, she risked being at the receiving end of biting sarcasm or bitterly cruel comments about her appearance, personality or level of intelligence that could reduce her to tears.

She had no idea what it was that caused this dark, unpleasant mood to descend; she only knew that it frightened her. If she didn't know better, she would have said that his black depression, combined with his manic moods, were the behaviours of a recovering alcoholic or drug user, but she couldn't imagine someone as fiercely intelligent as Sherlock becoming addicted to anything. And that theory didn't fit with his general health – whatever mood he was in, he was still always quick-witted and deft in his movements, rather than dulled by intoxication.

And those distinct personalities were only the ones that he showed _her_. For all she knew, there were other people in his life who would see an entirely different Sherlock. Not that, she had any idea. He never mentioned anyone to her. She overheard him on the phone once, talking in an impatient voice to someone called Mycroft. On another occasion, he was moaning to Mike about being kicked out of his flat over some experiment. Mike had told him, in a good-humoured manner, that he needed to find himself a flat mate who'd be prepared to clean up after him - Sherlock's only response had been a snort.

But he must have _someone_. Friends, family – perhaps even a significant other – some lucky woman. It would never be _her_, of course – she was never that lucky, and he didn't show the remotest interest in her, no matter what she did. Of course, he might be gay, but in her (admittedly) limited experience, he showed zero interest in either gender. He was either asexual or else incredibly loyal to his partner.

She could only imagine the kind of partner that might be able to attract and, more to the point, _continue_ to keep the attention of this intriguing man. Occasionally, she would visualise a shadowy figure – male or female – sleek and attractive, tall, leggy and exotic. This person would always be impeccably turned out and would always look as if he or she had only just left the hairdressers. He or she would be extremely clever, of course, and witty and _interesting_.

One thing was for sure – that imagined partner would _never_ flush or get sweaty every time the tall consulting detective breezed into the room, just as he did now.

Molly had just finished labelling up some tissue samples for Mike's medical students. She'd been enjoying the monotony of the job, comparing bar codes to labels and humming a pop song under her breath. Now – instantly – she was horribly aware of a coffee stain on the sleeve of her blouse and the spot on her chin that she'd carefully covered with concealer before leaving home but which was almost certainly visible by now.

"Um…Hi, Sherlock. How are you today?" she quavered, _hating_ herself for doing so. Why couldn't she just behave like a normal human being around this man?

"Ah – Molly, _Molly_…" He walked around behind her and his large hands dropped on her shoulders. She just had time to drop a bagged tissue sample from suddenly nerveless fingers before he swung her around to face him. His eyes were glittering wildly – _definitely 'Manic Sherlock' today _– and he gave her a small shake before letting her go. "_This_ is your lucky day."

"Er…it _is_?" She gave a weak little giggle and pushed back her hair. The bob was growing out and it was growing a bit straggly, but she'd got up half an hour early this morning to use her new curling tongs. The glossy waves had long since disappeared to be replaced by straight hair again, but in any case, he didn't seem to have noticed her poor attempt at a new look. He was peering over her shoulder at the skin samples she was working on, leaning in with his hands on the table on either side of her, as if she were not there. She found herself squeezed between him and the table and her stomach clenched uncomfortably, as it so often did. She could smell the light musk of the product he used to dampen down his curls, and resisted the impulse to close her eyes and breathe it deeply into her lungs.

"Yes, Molly, it _is_, because you have both the _means_ and the _opportunity_ to help me solve a murder – and I do hope the _motive_ too. All I need is a middle-aged male, deceased no more than three days, must be an alcoholic, and I'm _sure_ you can provide one." He continued leaning over her, studying the packaged tissue samples.

"Well, I don't know…" She could feel herself growing hotter and her underarms dampening. Before long she was going to stink of perspiration. Why wouldn't he move away?

"What? Not even _one_ body, generously donated to medical science? You disappoint me, Molly." He lifted a hand to prod at one of the packages, pushing impossibly closer against her in the process. Didn't he have the _least_ idea of the impact he was having on her? "Interesting… arsenic poisoning…"

"Um – they're samples - for Mike's pathology session." She managed to squirm away from him and turn back to the table, picking up the tray of samples. "I – um – I just need to – you know -." She gestured towards the morgue.

He seemed to have lost interest, turning towards her computer instead, and she escaped gratefully, going into the morgue to store the samples in a cold cabinet. Inevitably, when she returned, he'd hacked into her computer.

"Predictable as ever, Molly. If you're going to insist on changing your password after each of my visits, at least _try_ to make it a challenge…"

She suppressed a sigh – she'd long since given up trying to prevent him from getting access to confidential data. As she approached the screen, she could see that he was clicking through recently completed forensic reports."

"Aha – here we are! This'll do nicely." He tapped the screen, indicating a record for a fifty-five year-old male road traffic victim. "Get the body out for me."

"I can't do that! Sherlock – you _know_ I can't – he's not a donation! His family -."

"Won't be coming for him," he interrupted impatiently, his eyes scanning the details. "Homeless for roughly ten years, no recorded next of kin. Parents died years ago, wife left him when he took to drinking and couldn't care less about him, children probably don't even know he still exists. Oh, come _on_, Molly! You know as well as I do that he'll end up cremated by the state. I only need him for a couple of hours."

"Well, what about the inquest…"

He rolled his eyes. "A homeless alcoholic hit by a night bus after staggering off the kerb? I doubt our legal system will be all that concerned, and the forensic report is complete. And anyway, even if they take a second look, they won't even notice."

"Won't notice _what_?"

"That I've had him out of the freezer for a couple of hours," he replied, carefully dodging her real question.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, weakly, already aware that she was probably going to give in and let him have what he wanted. Didn't she always?

"Oh…it'd take too long to explain. It's for a case." He turned towards her, gripping her shoulders again and granting her his most brilliant smile as his voice dipped lower, his tone suddenly intimate. "I'd be _very_ grateful, Molly."

"Well… if it's for a case…" She was mesmerised by his eyes. Not for the first time, she noticed that it was hard to pin down the exact colour. In general, they looked blue, but the actual shade could range from stormy grey to deepest azure depending on the light and – she suspected – his mood. Today – well, right now at least - they were sea-green and very soft, seeming to draw her in.

Abruptly, he dropped his hands from her shoulders and rubbed them together. "Good, good! Put him in room two – the light's better there. Now, I'm going to need…" He spun away, making for the hazardous substances storage unit.

She gave a tremulous sigh and tried to calm her breathing. He _must _know what effect he had on her. It looked artless, but it _couldn't _be, not with that seductive voice and that manner he had of scrambling her thought processes by shamelessly invading her personal space.

She gave a shaky laugh and looked at the screen, dutifully noting the ID number on her pad.

As she went into the morgue, fetching a trolley to retrieve the body, she reflected on how quickly her initial fascination with this man had developed into a full-on crush. Probably less than a week after she officially transferred to Bart's. It was all too easy to fall for a man like Sherlock Holmes.

In the first place, he was nothing like any of the men she'd met before – a world away from the male students on her chemistry degree for a start and not much like her mortuary colleagues either. His designer suits and shoes - and _that_ coat – made him stand out, and the Byronic curls and romantically pale complexion added to the image.

When he wasn't around, she was able to focus on her work, which she enjoyed very much. Mike Stamford was a pleasant boss, not particularly demanding, and although her work was fairly routine, she enjoyed it. In her quiet way, she got on well with the forensic pathologists and her fellow mortuary assistants.

Sherlock was the only element that threatened to disrupt her working day. It would have been easier if she could predict when he was likely to turn up, as well as the mood he would be in. As it was, she was on constant tenterhooks. He came in quite frequently, even if it was only briefly to 'borrow' some equipment from the lab. The longest time he'd been absent was two weeks, so if she hadn't seen him for a few days, she'd be constantly rushing off to her locker to touch up her make-up, just in case. Not that he ever noticed – he'd either ignore her appearance completely or, if he were in a particularly vindictive mood, he'd criticise her. He seemed to have an innate understanding of her greatest insecurities (her lank hair, thin lips and tendency to blush at the slightest provocation) and would exploit them mercilessly. And he never apologised. The next time he came in, it would be as if nothing happened.

The strange thing was that he never appeared to interact with anyone else in the pathology department. He was on reasonably affable terms with Mike, although that was due more to the doctor's kindly demeanour than as a result of any effort by Sherlock. Sometimes, he was present when Greg Lestrade, the pleasant but permanently tired-looking DI from the Met, came in to view a body. On those occasions, he generally ignored the pathologists and carried out his own examinations, rapping out his deductions with his usual machine-gun delivery. He also ignored the other mortuary assistants. When she made tentative enquiries of her colleagues, no one seemed to have anything to do with him.

She often wondered who he went to for favours when she wasn't on duty, but it didn't appear to be an issue. Generally, he seemed to know exactly when she _would_ be there, although there had been that famous occasion when she had been on holiday in Scotland and had received a series of increasingly impatient texts demanding her immediate return. In the end, she _had_ popped back a couple of days' early (the weather wasn't very nice anyway, and they were short of assistants at work), but he hadn't come into Bart's for a week. The next time she saw him, he couldn't recall sending the texts and didn't seem to remember why he'd needed her, "but it couldn't have been that important, Molly, since it was only _you_". She reflected, bitterly, that he'd probably only wanted her to fetch him a coffee.

It was utterly ridiculous really, she mused as she wheeled the covered body into examination room two. No one else would be stupid enough to put up with his put-downs and insults and his obvious exploitation of her desire to be of use. If she had any pride at all, she'd have told him to get stuffed a long time ago…but then, if she had, he'd have probably just stood there with his confused/innocent expression, as if he had no idea what he'd done to offend her. Just like his flirting, she couldn't tell whether that was real or feigned either.

"Excellent…no, that's fine, just leave it there," he directed, sounding distracted.

She bit her lip and went back into the laboratory. A simple thank-you would have been nice, but she'd learnt not to expect any niceties. If it had been nearer to the end of her shift, she might have been tempted to linger out of curiosity. Generally, in this type of mood, he didn't mind, as long as she stayed out of his way and kept her mouth shut. If she struck lucky, he might even explain what he was doing. She was too busy today, however.

After a quick sandwich and coffee, she went into the mortuary to assist one of the duty pathologists in carrying out an autopsy – a sad case of sudden heart failure in a seventeen year old boy, a keen footballer who had collapsed during a match. It turned out he had had an undiagnosed congenital heart condition. The tragedy was that if it had been diagnosed, it could have been controlled. Sobered by the sight of a healthy young body permanently stilled by death, she sat down at her computer and dutifully typed in the pathologist's findings.

As she completed and signed the e-form, he came back into the laboratory. "OK, I've finished, you can put him away again."

She looked around at him; he was leaning against the table frowning at a petri dish. "What did you do? Can you explain it to me?"

"What? No – you wouldn't understand." He waved a dismissive hand in her direction, still staring at the dish. Usually she would take the hint, but just for once, she decided to assert herself.

"I might." She stood up. "Try me."

He gave her an impatient glance but began to speak, his voice a monotone. "Subject is a middle-aged male, who was admitted to hospital with the symptoms of advanced alcoholic hepatitis. Autopsy seems to bear that out, and he's reported to have been a heavy drinker. Lived in a country estate where he enjoyed riding and blood sports and spent his evenings both polishing his guns and polishing off the scotch. And yet, this same man was out riding just a few days before his death. Plus, he had a string of ex-wives and estranged children, and yet his youngest daughter was the sole inheritor of his not-inconsiderable estate. He had a reputation for falling out with his relatives on a whim; his will was altered 9 times in the last year of his life. Household staff noted that he seemed angry with his daughter, had been shouting at her and had requested a visit from his lawyer. They think it was because he disapproved of her boyfriend – not rich enough for her. Lawyer was abroad and by the time he returned, Daddy was comatose in a hospital bed, his health having taken a dramatic turn for the worse."

"So, you think it wasn't alcoholic liver disease that killed him, then?" Molly leaned closer, trying to get a look at whatever was dominating Sherlock's attention. "What is that – is it… _Sherlock_! You took a liver sample from that man, didn't you?"

"Oh, _relax_," he said, impatiently. "I stitched him up again and you already took samples for the inquest; no one's ever going to know that a little more has gone. I needed it – specifically, I needed the liver of an alcoholic middle-aged man."

"For heaven's sake, Sherlock! One of these days, I swear… You know you're going to get me sacked, don't you?"

"Don't be so melodramatic," he drawled. "If you're so worried, perhaps you'd better get that body back into storage before someone notices that it's gone."

She hurried off to retrieve the body. When she returned, he was still frowning at the sample.

"What are you going to do with it?" she asked.

"Compare it with a sample from the billionaire – when I get hold of one," he muttered. "The question is, _how_? Autopsy was straightforward and the body's about to be released to the daughter, who will no doubt cremate it at the earliest opportunity. I need something _quick_ – something that will catch Gavin's attention and get him to hold the body back."

"Gavin?"

"_Yes _– you know, Lestrade."

"Oh, you mean _Greg_."

"Who's Greg? Anyway, I need to investigate why a man who was relatively healthy even though he was fond of his scotch would _suddenly_ die of liver disease. Yes, he'd have some damage, but why such a _sudden_ decline? So far, all I can do is compare his liver with that of a matched individual with chronic liver disease caused by more than ten years of heavy drinking. I need to demonstrate that the decline in one liver is more acute than in another."

"What would _that_ mean?" She frowned. "How do you know that one liver doesn't decline more quickly than another?"

He gave her a particularly 'Sherlock' look. "Not _that_ quickly."

"But…what would do that? Presumably the autopsy found no signs of poisoning, if that's what you're thinking of?"

"No, so this poison was something that wasn't ingested. The question is: what?"

He fell silent, frowning into space.

Typically, Molly grew nervous in the silence and just as typically, felt a need to fill it. "I saw an interesting autopsy this afternoon. Sad case, really – a young man who literally died on the football pitch -."

"_Boring_," he interrupted, glaring at the liver sample.

She was shocked into silence for a moment. "A healthy young man drops dead and you think it's _boring_? Not to his parents."

He gave her a strange look. "I'm not one of his parents, so why should _I_ care?"

Again, she couldn't interpret this. Was he playing a role? Or was he, quite genuinely, confused by the notion that he should feel any sorrow for the boy's untimely death?

"It doesn't bother you, then? That boy could have had a normal life span if his heart condition had been diagnosed. I think that's what bothers me the most," she added, thoughtfully and half to herself. "We think we're so clever these days, a cure for cancer just around the corner and yet there are so many things we don't know. That boy had no advance warning – or if he did, he hadn't realised how serious it was -."

"Yes, well, thank you, Molly, but you don't actually _need_ to keep talking. It's not required."

She ignored this. "I suppose you could say it was a silent killer - ."

"I mean, it would be different if you had something _useful_ to say -."

"It was there, but no one paid any attention to it -."

"_Yes_! That's _it_!" He leaped into the air, punching his fist above his head.

She was shocked into immobility as he began to pace the room, talking quickly. "_That's_ how she did it. Silent killer… something that's there but no one pays any attention to it. But of course, the gun room and he loved his guns… Carbon tetrachloride!"

He stopped in front of her, grabbing her arms. "Come _on_, Molly, wake up! What forms does it take?"

"Um…" Her mind raced. "It's a banned substance, once used in fire extinguishers and – and dry solvents, I think. It's toxic, can affect the nervous system and kidneys -."

"Yes, yes, and -?"

"And the liver too, its vapour…" She stopped as Sherlock gave her a little shake and let go.

"Yes, yes! That's _exactly it_ – the _vapour_." He span around, holding his arms out wide. "She added it to the solvent he used to clean his guns. How did she get hold of it? Boyfriend needs checking out, probably works for a pharmaceutical company or has access – they use it still in hepatotoxicity testing. The victim spent hours in his gun room every day. No one else was allowed access, only him. So, for the last couple of weeks, he was spraying that solvent onto cleaning cloths, breathing in the vapour…"

"And that accelerated his liver damage," she breathed. "_Extraordinary_."

"Yes, and it's the lead I need," he added, quickly thumbing in a message on his phone. "Gavin needs to get forensics into that gun room and search the rubbish too – she's probably thrown the evidence away, but there'll be traces on every surface." He put his phone away and grabbed her hands, grinning at her, his eyes sparkling. "_Brilliant_, Molly – that was _brilliant_!"

She laughed, ridiculously elated. She'd always found his evident excitement in the face of murder a little disconcerting – what kind of person would be _pleased_ to know that someone was definitely murdered? However, she was beginning to see the attraction. To know that you had outsmarted the cleverest of murderers, to discover something that even an experienced forensic pathologist had missed… It was heady.

And _she_ was part of it too; he thought _she_ was brilliant! He'd said it, and he wouldn't say it if he didn't mean it, would he? _She_, little Molly Hooper, was pronounced brilliant by _Sherlock Holmes_! Suddenly, she felt at least six inches taller. In the face of his open admiration, she felt pretty. Even as he dropped her hands and turned away, she felt something warm in her stomach, spreading out over her body…

"You could buy me a drink, you know," she said, greatly daring.

"Hmm?" He'd taken his phone out again and was scanning for articles on carbon tetrachloride.

"A drink. You know – to celebrate. You could thank me by taking me out for a drink." She giggled nervously.

He looked up at her and something – _something_ – in his eyes made that warm glow in her stomach turn to ice, instantly. It wasn't that his eyes were cold or hard or cruel. It was simply that they were utterly _blank_. _Neutral_. _Disengaged_. As if he'd forgotten who she was or why she was even there. As if she was _nothing_ to him.

"Why on earth would I want to buy _you _a drink?"

* * *

**Poor Molly... I feel so mean.**


	3. Chapter 3

**OK, so I've discovered that I diverge from canon in a couple of areas. In the TV version, when we first meet Molly, she is 31 years' old and it's implied that she's only recently met Sherlock. In my version, Molly is a few years younger. She first met Sherlock when she was 26 and he was 31, and by the time John comes into the picture, they've known each other for 2 years and Molly is now 28. But, never mind!**

**There are some words towards the end quoted from Molly Hooper's blog, property of Joseph Lidster. And the usual disclaimers reply: not mine, no money. Oh, and there's also some discussion of sex in this chapter, but nothing really explicit.**

* * *

Chapter 3

Jealousy could destroy.

Jealously could be sudden and intense, but it could also creep up on you, gradually, almost imperceptibly, and take over your thoughts before you even knew it was there. It didn't matter how often you told yourself how _bloody pointless_ it all was, because _he'd_ never look at _you _– no, not in a _million_ years, not even if you were the only other person left in the entire world. It didn't matter. You couldn't help it.

Molly furiously pushed back the long strand of hair that insisted on escaping from her pony tail as she bent over her computer. She was busy working on probably the most boring job of all: industriously adding the pathologists' autopsy notes to the electronic records system. It was the kind of work she could do in her sleep, working through a teetering pile of paper - file after _damn file_…

The trouble was that the basic admin task was not sufficiently interesting to block her visual memories of a familiar lean figure, striding up and down the main laboratory, gesticulating wildly and talking animatedly. Eyes sparkling, alive, focused on the possibilities only he could see. And all aimed at her, no one else.

Not anymore. No.

Sherlock's exclusive attention was focused elsewhere now. On a small, calm, steady figure that had already become almost _hatefully _familiar. Dr John Watson. Arms folded, head cocked, eyebrows quirked in part-amusement part-amazement, as Sherlock expounded his theories.

_Two years_! _Two bloody years_ of risking her job by letting him in, day and night, finding body parts for him, turning a blind eye to the experiments, being a sounding board for his wilder theories. Two years of putting up with the casual insults, the bossing around, the most bizarre orders (she could hardly call them requests)… and nothing to show for it. Not a single kind word, never an offer of a coffee, not even a genuine "thank you". Not once.

Her thoughts strayed from the task to her memories of the last few weeks. When the slightly shabby, insignificant-looking stranger had limped into the lab leaning on his cane, she'd barely given him a glance. Just another of Mike's waifs and strays, not worth her attention. Not when Sherlock was standing _right there_. Just the sight of him made her heart leap.

She'd long since given up trying to analyse her reactions to the consulting detective. Familiarity and the constant knock-backs should have dulled them by now. It wasn't the first time Molly had fallen in love with someone unattainable, not the first time she'd had her heart broken, so why so significant this time? Why _him_? Why was it that the intensity of her feelings _now_ made those previous times seem like silly schoolgirl crushes, not worth remembering? Why did she have the uneasy feeling that this 'crush' would never be subsumed; that no other man would ever match him?

Her hands stilled on the keys as she considered him. Taken individually, his features were not that attractive. There were those oddly-shaped eyes with their indistinct colour, almost too small for his long face. The ridiculously striking cheekbones. The snub nose. The strongly defined upper lip and plush lower lip, strangely feminine in such a cold man. Over-long limbs that somehow managed to be graceful, and enormous hands with pale spidery fingers that ought to be far too big to move so delicately. And yet, taken together… He was… he was the kind of person to whom everyone's eyes would automatically turn the moment he walked into a room. The kind of man who made everyone else seem to blend into the background.

And then there was that _voice_. Ridiculously deep for such a slim man, it did strange things to her stomach every time he opened his mouth. Sometimes (though not always), it made it easier to ignore the jibes. Sometimes she was even prepared to open her mouth and make some comment that she knew would draw his ire, just so she feel that smooth baritone sweeping over her.

She never could have guessed the significance of the moment that John Watson stepped into the laboratory. She'd simply walked in, handed Sherlock his coffee, hidden her wince at the jibe about her mouth being too small and then walked out again. She'd obviously glanced in John's direction but had just as quickly dismissed him from her mind. It had been a shock when Mike had, rather smugly, told her that he'd managed to solve the accommodation problems of two people. And, of course, she couldn't enquire too deeply (_How_? _When_? _Why_?) without looking a bit too obvious.

The _Why?_ was answered the next time Sherlock strolled in, accompanied by Dr Watson. If she'd thought Sherlock was animated with her, he was positive sparkling with energy as he sparred with the older man, who was obviously already used to him, judging by the ironic, tolerant smiles with which he greeted Sherlock's sharp remarks.

And, OK, so she hadn't exactly been the focus of Sherlock's attention before, but at least he'd occasionally looked at her and had even found time to explain his theories, using her as a silent but appreciative sounding board. Now, he only ever looked in her direction if he actually wanted something that he couldn't either swipe himself or get John to fetch.

"Aha! New files!"

She jumped violently, shaken out of her depressing thoughts, as Sherlock burst into the laboratory, clapping his gloved hands together, briskly. He strode over to her desk and picked up the pile of folders, flicking through them quickly. "Anything interesting?"

"No, nothing! Don't mix them up, I've just done that one…" She reached out, trying to grab the folders but he lifted them above her head with a smirk. "You _know_ I always hold back anything that falls into one of your categories."

He dropped them, dismissively. "Better get on with your inputting. More important things to be doing, and you might be able to help me." He paused and considered her in a way that was just short of insulting. "Well, I say _help_… Perhaps shutting up and keeping out of my way might be more accurate, judging by your current mood. What's the matter? Boyfriend called it off?" He smirked, to show that he knew perfectly well that there was no boyfriend.

"Just ignore him, Molly. He's in a mood himself because Mrs Hudson's hidden his skull again and this time he can't find it."

She leaned over, peering around Sherlock in the direction of the second voice. Yes, there he was, as always. John. Sherlock's little _shadow_, she thought, rather uncharitably. Smiling kindly at her, even as her heart sank at the sight of him.

Sherlock snorted. "It's not a question of _not_ being able to. I just can't see the _point_ in playing such a ridiculous game. I suppose it gives her something to do."

"Oh, so you'll go straight to it when you get home, will you?" John winked at Molly as Sherlock ignored him.

Her instinctive dislike of the doctor was really quite unfair of her. During their brief acquaintance, John Watson had been nothing but perfectly pleasant. Amiable, polite, always thanking her when she brought him a cup of tea. Occasionally even seeking to take the bite out of Sherlock's meaner comments, which clearly troubled him.

She forced a smile in response. "I'm nearly finished, actually. I'll get something to drink in a minute, if you like?"

Her enquiry was tentative and, as expected, Sherlock ignored her, but John smiled. "That'd be great, thanks Molly. Tea for me, milk, no sugar, and I think you must know how Sherlock takes his coffee by now. Frankly, I'm amazed he's got any of his own teeth left."

"Less sugar in my coffee than in those biscuits you keep buying," Sherlock muttered, distractedly, as he looked around the laboratory. "Now, I'm going to need…"

Molly waved a hand, interrupting him. "Yes, go ahead. Anything." She'd learnt from bitter experience that it was best to just let Sherlock get on with it. Not really her responsibility, anyway. Mike hadn't actually banned him – not _yet_.

He turned away. "OK, John, get those petri dishes…"

She spun around in her chair, determinedly facing her computer terminal. However, it was just impossible to concentrate, with Sherlock giving bossy orders to John just behind her. She repressed a sigh and stood up, collecting the mug of coffee that she had allowed to get cold.

In the little staff kitchen, she boiled the kettle and dug into the cupboard for her clearly labelled jar of coffee. She'd started off getting her drinks from the machine along the corridor, but frankly it was so disgusting that it was hard to tell whether the cup contained coffee or tea. So she'd splashed out on an expensive jar, and amazingly there was still enough left for two mugs, even though it was frequently pilfered by her colleagues. Just recently, she'd added a (rather cheaper) box of tea bags, especially for John.

Drinks made, she put them on a tray and cautiously made her way back to the laboratory. Sherlock and John were arguing about something in their usual amiable manner and ignored her. She put the cups on the worktop, trying to ignore a fresh twinge of jealousy as Sherlock grinned at John, and made her way back to her computer.

Gradually, their conversation began to filter into her consciousness, rather like music that had had the volume turned up slightly.

"…don't believe you anyway," John was saying. "You can't possibly tell that from a jumper. For all you know, she was just about to visit her parents, or had a job interview, or something -."

"I'm telling you the truth. She was definitely about to go on a date - and with another woman. Which should come as a surprise to her husband when she finally leaves him."

There was a pause. Then: "A _woman_? You got that from a new jumper?" John sounded incredulous. "I don't buy it. Anyway, she was flirting with _you_."

Molly's hands paused on the keyboard at this. She turned in her chair and picked up her mug to sip her coffee, watching the two men carefully as she did so.

Sherlock was sorting some ash into petri dishes – his ongoing cigarette ash experiment, she presumed. Business must be slow then; he usually only turned back to this project when there was nothing else to occupy his mind. He didn't seem too disconcerted, though – there was no sign of the dark depression that often came over him at such times. She wondered what impact John's presence at home had had on his darker moods.

John was leaning against the wall, arms crossed and watching Sherlock's work, idly. She wondered what he did with his time. He no longer appeared to need the cane, but equally didn't seem to work – or at least he seemed to come in with Sherlock at all hours. Did he have some kind of army pension? He must do, or surely he wouldn't be able to support himself.

Sherlock didn't seem particularly phased by John's comment. "Of _course_ she was flirting. She didn't mean anything by it. It's simply what she's programmed to do. That's how she got herself a rich husband in the first place, even though she prefers the female gender." His hands paused as he considered. "In a way, I admire her. Oh, not for marrying a man she has no feelings for, but for being able to put aside sexual attraction to concentrate on the goal at hand. There is no doubt that her husband will never know the truth unless she chooses to tell him. As far as he's concerned, she's passionate about him – both out of bed and in it."

John laughed. "You are _kidding_ me. You really think it's possible to _fake_ sexual attraction? To pretend to be straight when you're actually gay?" He thought about this for a minute. "Well, maybe it would be easier for a _woman_ to keep the pretence going…"

Sherlock grinned at this, looked up at Molly and called out across the room. "What do _you_ think, Molly? Is it possible for a woman to continue to fake orgasms over many years?"

She gulped down scalding liquid, feeling it burn her mouth as she blushed. "Um, I wouldn't know about that…"

He gave her a quick, dismissive look. "No. I don't suppose you would."

"Well, _I_ don't think she could," John continued, firmly. "Sooner or later, something would have to give. She'd go mad, trying to cover up her true nature. The sexual impulse runs deep. You can disguise a lot of things, but long term…and, anyway, men certainly can't fake sexual attraction."

"Yes, they could."

"Bollocks! A man cannot fake orgasm."

"They _can_ fake orgasm," Sherlock argued. "They can't fake ejaculation – _that_ I grant you. But it might not be necessary. Most men are capable of – what's the delightful phrase? – 'getting off', just as long as they can close their eyes and conjure up their fantasy of choice. In fact, they'd probably find it easier than women, who tend to place a greater emotional emphasis on the act. But consider straight men who sell sex to other men. They have to be able to conjure up a physiological response if required."

There was something slightly hard in Sherlock's tone – the last sentence was almost spat out. Molly noticed it, and was aware that John had too. Almost imperceptibly, the doctor had straightened from his slouch and was eyeing his friend keenly.

"Could _you_? Fake a response, I mean?" he asked, perhaps over-casually, because Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"_No_, John, the answer to your poorly disguised question is that I have _never_ prostituted myself to pay for drugs. You might give me a _little_ more credit than that," he muttered, and then grinned. "Personally, I've always found hacking into one of Mycroft's personal bank accounts much more fun. Less messy and more rewarding in the long run."

John relaxed a little. This was confirmation, had Molly ever needed it, that Sherlock _had_ been an addict at some stage. And clearly John was aware of that fact too and, equally clearly, he worried for his friend's health. Almost against her will, she found herself warming to the doctor.

"You didn't answer my question, though," John persisted.

Sherlock sighed. "Yes. I imagine I could 'fake it', if required. Fortunately, the necessity has never arisen."

"You mean, you've never had to fake a response with a _man_? Or – um – you know…a _woman_?"

Molly winced at the fake nonchalance in John's voice, even as her ears pricked up. This was a question she'd been asking herself for over two years now, and she was no nearer to an answer. She had wondered for a while whether there was something going on between the two men, but it had become clear from various conversations that John was very much into women. Which, of course, didn't mean that Sherlock didn't fancy _him_…or men in general.

"Oh, for - _why_ do you persist in trying to analyse my sexuality?" Sherlock sounded genuinely irritated. "What difference could it possibly make to you whether I'm attracted to women, men or _amoebae_?"

"I wouldn't _need _to ask if you would just tell me," John pointed out, patiently.

"I don't tell you because it's irrelevant!" Sherlock paused in his work and looked around at John. "What would you do with that information if I _did_ tell you? It surely wouldn't make a difference to the way you treat me…? _No_, of course not. You're no homophobe. So, what then? So you can put me into a _category_ – a _tidy little box_? Straight men to the right, gays to the left?"

"Of course not," John muttered, all the humour gone out of his voice. "I'm not crass enough to think that your characteristics or life style are affected by your sexuality."

"So why does it _matter_?" Sherlock waved a pipette in the air. "That's what I don't understand. In almost any other individual, sexuality _could_ matter. It might affect how a victim met his or her death, how or why a murderer committed the crime, even how a witness might react. But in _me_, it _doesn't_ matter, because it doesn't define my life." He sighed and bent over his experiment again.

John laughed, suddenly relaxed again. "I love the way you say 'any other individual'. As if you're somehow _above_ our base, primitive desires."

His eyes twinkled at Molly. John had a wonderful knack of including everyone in his conversations with Sherlock. Even though she'd hardly contributed to the conversation, he somehow managed to convey a sense of 'you and me against him' that she found herself appreciating.

_I should have fallen for you_, she thought suddenly, looking at his kind face. She could see how he'd earned the 'Three Continents Watson' tag that Sherlock had mocked him for ever since meeting one of John's old army mates. Presumably, he was good in bed – she blushed a little at the thought – but it was more than that. John was the type of man who would want to make his partner feel _special_, even if she was just a one-night stand. _Important._ An attractive quality to Molly, who yearned to feel important to _someone_.

And he was utterly at ease in his own body. When one considered him in isolation from Sherlock, he was a deeply attractive man with those bright blue eyes and that faded blond hair and tanned face and solid, muscular body. It wasn't his fault that he was overlooked whenever he was in the presence of his taller, more dramatic looking flatmate.

But, yes… It would have been far simpler to have fallen in love with John Watson.

John was still looking at her and seemed to guess the direction of her thoughts, as he blinked a little. For a brief, intense moment, they looked at one another, the possibility hanging between them, almost tantalisingly. Then a complicated expression flitted over John's face and he looked away. At the time, she couldn't discern the exact emotion. Later, much later, she recognised it as compassion.

Sherlock spoke again, and they both jumped slightly. "If it helps you to know for certain, John – and frankly I can't see why – I identify as straight. Insofar as I experience attraction at all, the focus would be on the female form."

Molly gently let out the tense breath that she hadn't been aware she was holding, hoping that Sherlock wouldn't hear her. His head was bent studiously over his work as he continued:

"But, as I say, it's entirely irrelevant, since I have not the remotest intention to act on it. I hope that satisfies your curiosity. I can only assume you were concerned that I might be about to 'jump' you."

His voice was quiet and he didn't look in John's direction. However, Molly fancied she could detect a slight pinking of those pale cheeks. He clenched his fists slightly before continuing the delicate job of squeezing drops from the pipette onto the tobacco samples.

"_Hardly_," John snorted, apparently unaware of his friend's discomfort. "While it's interesting to know, frankly I can't visualise you jumping _anyone_, male or female."

"My point _exactly_! It simply doesn't define me in any way." Sherlock suddenly put the pipette down and gestured towards Molly, startling her. "Look at her! New blouse today – green. She knows that the colour suits her, so she wears it deliberately. But _why_? Whose attention is she trying to attract?"

"_Sherlock_…" John murmured, giving Molly an awkward glance, while she clutched at the collar of her blouse with suddenly unsteady fingers. _He'd noticed that the colour brought out the tints of hazel in her brown eyes_…

"And _you_. How often do you dress to impress a woman? Putting on and taking off about four shirts before you go out on one of your dates. I don't know why you bother. You and Molly – bad as each other. 'Does he really like me?' 'Will she say yes if I ask her out?'" He mimicked them in a high, falsetto before grimacing in disgust. "Utterly _pointless_. Who cares?"

"Well, presumably _we_ do," replied John, throwing Molly a quizzical look. "Like the majority of the rest of the human race. Anyway, it's not necessarily _all_ about sex. Most humans are wired not to want to be alone, that's all."

Sherlock snorted. "But it's _mainly_ about sex. I don't understand the appeal."

He bent over his experiment, but raised his head a moment later at John's silence. "_Well_? Go on, then. Ask the question that is currently hovering on your tongue. You know you want to."

John coughed, a little uncomfortably. "Well, OK then. _Are _you?"

"Asexual?" Sherlock paused, as if giving the question serious consideration, and then grinned. "No. I don't have that clinical diagnosis. I have what you would term 'normal' responses. It's merely a question…" he paused, to adjust his microscope, "…of mind over matter."

"You mean you -." John stuttered a little. Molly felt her cheeks flushing again and turned back towards the terminal, trying to hide her reaction.

"It's a natural physiological response, John. Did you assume I was entirely immune? Just because I don't allow it to define me, that doesn't mean I don't experience the same responses as everyone else. Equally, it doesn't mean I have to – how would you put it? – take matters in hand. Masturbation is a waste of perfectly good energy. Personally, I find that some mindless recitation takes the urge away."

"So what do you…?"

There was a pause, during which Molly didn't dare to look around. "The periodic table usually works. In Russian, if it becomes necessary."

Molly choked a little, trying to turn her response into an innocent cough.

"I cannot _believe_ we are having this conversation." Molly risked a look at the doctor. He was gazing at the ceiling in a bemused manner. As if he sensed her attention, he looked over at her, pulling a wry face – that same 'we're in this together' expression.

Sherlock shrugged, picking up his pipette again. "You started it."

"Did I? _You_ were the one who said – oh, what the hell." John rubbed his chin and then grinned suddenly. "Anyway, what's all this business about Molly and I dressing to impress? Are you trying to tell me that you _don't_? With your swish coat and your silk shirts and skin-tight suits?"

Sherlock sighed. "Yes, yes, of _course_, but it's for the Work. People respond differently to questions from a smartly dressed man."

"Otherwise you'd dress in jeans and a t-shirt, of _course_." Sherlock couldn't repress his shudder at the idea, and John gave a dry laugh. "That's bollocks for a start. You and your brother, you're both the same, always dressing in your posh designer clothes. You just don't like to admit to having the same sartorial tastes as him."

At the mention of Mycroft, Sherlock shuddered even more and made an obvious attempt to change the topic. "So, what about that woman that you were dressing to impress last night – Carla, was it?"

"Corrine," John corrected, with a heavy sigh.

"Yes, _her_." Disdain dripped from Sherlock's tone. "Are you seeing her again?"

John's sigh was even heavier. "Unlikely. For some reason, she didn't seem to enjoy slipping on a tray of dead worms."

"Well, I _had_ to put them there – the kitchen table was full."

"And having you throwing cold water over her legs didn't help much either."

"Ah, yes," Sherlock seemed to consider. "Well, I wasn't absolutely _sure _which of the trays I'd already added the sulphuric acid to. If it _had_ been that one, she might have splashed some of it onto her legs, and I thought better safe than sorry."

He was focusing very carefully on his tests and seemed quite genuine, but Molly fancied there was just the slightest quirk to his lips and felt a pang of sympathy for John's would-be girlfriend.

"Anyway," Sherlock went on, "I only mention it because it's not your appearance that's the problem – I mean the problem that you seem to have with keeping a girlfriend."

"_Oh_ \- you don't say."

Sherlock seemed to miss, or disregard, John's blatant sarcasm. "It's that awful blog you've started. No self-respecting woman would want to be with a man who can hardly string a coherent sentence together. And the hyperbole! Cathy has probably read it, and that's the reason why she won't return your texts or calls today."

"_Corrine_," John corrected, wearily. "And anyway, you're wrong. She'd read the blog, that's how we got talking in the first place. People like blogs – especially women. They feel they can learn something about the writer from them."

"Heaven only knows what your blog tells them about _you_," Sherlock muttered in response.

"Actually, I was thinking of writing something about your cases." John gave Sherlock a wicked grin.

The consulting detective sighed. "I feared as much. After that awful account of the – what did you call it? A Study in Pink? Appalling."

John raised his eyebrows. "You won't be complaining if it brings in more clients. People are interested in that kind of thing. It's more interesting than _your_ blog, anyway – gets more hits."

Sherlock glared at him, but made no reply.

Sensing that this was an ongoing source of tension, Molly piped up, a little timidly. "Everyone seems to have a blog these days."

"Yeah, you should try one, Molly," John suggested. "It's quite good fun."

"Oh, I don't think I could… I mean, what would I write about?" She giggled nervously. "Somehow, I don't think my afternoon of typing up pathologists' reports could compete with your accounts of Sherlock's cases."

"Still," John continued. "It doesn't really matter what you write about. It's just a way of getting things off your chest. And maybe meeting different people – you never know."

"Well, I…" she began, but Sherlock snorted.

"Don't be _ridiculous_, John. Why on _earth _would anyone want to read about Molly?"

"_Sherlock_!" his flatmate hissed angrily at him, but Molly had to admit that Sherlock had a point. Who'd be interested in dull Molly Hooper?

* * *

It took her a while to get around to it – a couple of months, in fact. However, eventually, on a rainy night, she sat down on the sofa with her laptop and began to search for blog sites.

It was surprisingly easy to set up your own page, she discovered. You just had to pick a tool and follow the clear instructions given. In fact, the design side of it was quite fun and she spent a while working out the colour scheme and inserting pictures.

Toby prowled over and rubbed against her leg before jumping up onto the sofa next to her, his purr loud in her ear.

"Do you like what you see, Tobes?" she murmured to him. He leaned into her side; a large, patrician black cat with a handsome face. Not much like the over-cute little kittens on her website, she had to admit. She took a hand from the keyboard for a moment to stroke through his soft, warm fur, and her toes curled up at the pleasure of it. He wasn't much of a lap cat, but when he did deign to allow her to pet him, she felt marvellously warm inside. _Wanted_. Even if, in this case, it was merely a blatant attempt to get food.

After a moment, he jumped off the sofa and stalked off towards his empty bowl. Probably annoyed that she hadn't taken the hint, she mused.

"I seem destined to be surrounded by tall, dark, handsome but ungrateful men," she muttered. "_There_. That'll do. Now, what on earth do I write…?"

She stared at the screen rather helplessly. It was all very well for John Watson, with his rich source of fascinating stories to pick from. Never a dull moment at 221B Baker Street, as far as she could tell from her avid perusal of his blog.

Sherlock was right. Who'd pay any attention to _her_ blog?

Still, in for a penny… She took a deep breath and began to type: "Hi. My name is Molly Hooper…"

* * *

"I did it, you know."

"Hmm?" John was frowning at something on his phone. He was leaning against the wall outside the morgue while Sherlock did goodness knew what to the poor corpse inside. She'd given up watching his bizarre experiments.

"Set up a blog. Like you said."

"Ah - ," he smiled at her, distractedly. "That's great, Molly."

"Are you OK? You seem a bit…" She waved her hand, but he seemed to understand.

"Yeah… I'm sorry, I'm just having a bit of a difficult month, money-wise. It's that git's fault," he gestured towards the closed door. "I could manage to live pretty well on my pension if I didn't spend half of it on black cab fares. And, of course, he never buys any food. I have to get it all…although, to be fair, he doesn't eat much of it either."

"Oh. I – I'm sorry to hear that," she ventured, cautiously. Truth to tell, she didn't know much about John Watson's life beyond his interactions with Sherlock.

"Mmm…" He sighed, putting his phone away. "I'm going to have to think about a job. Trouble is, how will I manage the hours around the investigations? To say nothing of the rude awakenings at 3AM, when _someone_ gets bored and picks up their violin."

He sounded rather put-upon and she wondered if he had any real idea of how lucky he was. She tried to imagine a scenario involving Sherlock putting on his jacket, chucking his phone into the pocket and barking out: "Molly, I need you – there's a crime to be solved." Somehow, it just didn't ring true.

She found herself leaning against the wall beside him. There was something strangely comforting about the company of John Watson. He made no demands on her, and she felt no desire to try to impress him or even to make conversation. She could relax in a mutual, comfortable silence with him.

After that moment in the laboratory, when he'd so clearly read her thoughts about him, she'd been a little awkward around him, but he'd been his usual easy-going self. She'd found herself relaxing more in his company and beginning to appreciate him. He was so much _easier_ than Sherlock! He didn't try to wrong-foot her all the time or fluster her with fake flattery.

"Would Mike…?" she offered, tentatively, but he grimaced, shaking his head.

"He'd offer me a job in an instant, bless him, but teaching's not my thing. Or research. I don't have the patience." His head turned in that familiar jerky manner of his as he glanced wistfully down the corridor in the direction of the clinical section of the hospital. "Ideally, I'd go back into trauma surgery, but… well, my shoulder's not really up to the job now."

He seemed to shrink into himself a little, and she suddenly felt quite irrationally angry. Angry at the army for not looking after him well enough, angry at the sniper who put a bullet through an army medic's shoulder, angry at the surgeons who couldn't fully repair the damage.

John was still talking. "…if anything, it'd have to be general practice. I've got my MRCGP, so I could work as a locum - ."

The door burst open and Sherlock stood there, looking irritated. "Complete waste of time, he announced, as he strode out. "You can put the body away, Molly. Come on, John, let's go to the Yard. There must be _something_ for me to do…"

"Yes, irritate Greg and insult Sally," John muttered, and gave Molly a strained smile as he followed Sherlock out.

As Molly watched them walk away, she thought about the few pathetic little entries on her little blog and wondered whether anyone would ever post a reply.


	4. Chapter 4

**I had a comment from espee, reviewing as a guest, pointing out that Molly is actually a qualified pathologist, i.e. a doctor. Unfortunately, I can't reply directly to guest reviews, so I'm explaining here. First of all, I'm quite sure you're right! Actually, the information is confusing – sometimes she's described as a pathologist and sometimes as a laboratory assistant. In my story After the Storm, I portrayed her as a pathologist but, for the purposes of this story, she's a lowly laboratory assistant at present – and there's a reason for that, which will become clear in later chapters. So, I hope that explains – and thanks for reviewing, by the way! Thanks also to my other guest reviewers that I can't reply to directly. Please remember that it's easier for me to do so if you log in before reviewing.**

**This chapter contains dialogue from A Scandal in Belgravia, for which I gratefully acknowledge the transcripts written by Ariane Devere.**

* * *

Chapter 4

It was an unexpectedly bright day in early December. The winter sun dazzled Molly as she emerged from Bond Street tube station, with a spring in her step.

She'd just finished a night shift in the morgue, so really should've been heading home to sleep, but she had a mission first. John Watson had invited her to the Christmas party he was holding at Baker Street! In the nearly three years since she'd met Sherlock, she'd seen hardly anything of the detective's private life. She'd been to Baker Street a couple of times when Sherlock had asked her to bring some body parts from the morgue. But he'd never seen her outside of the work context, so to speak.

So she had two missions. One was to buy a present for Sherlock – and for John too, of course, and perhaps it would be polite to get a token gift for their nice, chatty landlady, if she could work out what, having only met her on a couple of occasions – and the other was to find a dress that was completely, utterly _devastating_. Something that was so totally 'un-Molly-like' that she might actually have a chance of making him see her in a different light.

_If you can't make an impact at a party_, she thought to herself, grimly, _where can you_?

It was an opportunity, anyway – and perhaps a fresh start. Time to put the past behind her.

It had taken a while to get back to normal after the devastating events in May. It had come as a terrible shock when sweet 'Jim from IT' had turned out to be a fake. To what degree, she had no real idea, but he had clearly been using her.

She had been mortified when Greg Lestrade had marched into the laboratory and taken her to one side for questioning. He was very nice about it, of course, but she'd had to go down to the Yard to sign a statement about her interactions with a certain James Blake, even if it was a pathetically short statement. As she did so, she'd reflected on the fact that she really hadn't known him all that well before he'd disappeared from her life and his job.

Damn Sherlock! And yet, he'd been right all along. 'Jim' probably _had _been gay and just stringing her along to get access to Sherlock who, presumably, he had a major crush on. When it hadn't worked out, he'd probably decided to leave, without even a goodbye to her. Greg hadn't said what charges, if any, they had brought against him; it might have just been a missing person enquiry, for all she knew.

Her emotions had very quickly turned to embarrassment. What a fool she'd been! He'd seemed so sweet when he'd come round, and Toby had seemed to like him. Still…at least she hadn't had a chance to go any further with him than a chaste peck on the cheek. Truth to tell, he hadn't seemed all that interested in going any further…well, he _wouldn't,_ would he?

In the end, she'd assumed that he was Sherlock's stalker, and perhaps the consulting detective had filed a complaint about his obsessive behaviour. This seemed to be confirmed when John had come in to the laboratory alone, a couple of weeks after Jim's disappearance, and had asked how she was doing. He'd seemed to be very sweetly concerned about her, and had said that if she heard anything from Jim, she should let the police know immediately. He'd then smiled and told her not to worry… which, of course, had had the opposite effect.

One thing she hadn't told John, although she had mentioned it in her statement to Greg, was that James Blake (assuming that was his name) had been to her flat. Greg didn't seem overly concerned, but she had, rather uneasily, wondered whether she should have told John. The doctor seemed more worried than usual, and she couldn't help wondering precisely what 'Jim' had said or done to Sherlock.

For a while, she'd been pretty nervous, carrying a rape alarm and a can of pepper spray in her handbag whenever she went out in the dark and checking every corner of the flat each time she returned home. But, much to her relief, Jim didn't reappear in her life.

Nor, for a while, did Sherlock. John had assured her than he was fine, "just busy, you know what he's like". When he _did_ return, about a month later, it was as if the incident with 'Jim' had never occurred. She'd been feeling terribly guilty for providing the means for an obsessive stalker to bother the consulting detective, but Sherlock didn't seem remotely concerned.

When she stammered out an embarrassed apology, flushed red as a tomato, he'd reacted in an unusual manner. He'd contemplated her silently for about a minute and then, just when she'd decided that she was going to get no response, he'd smiled at her, quite warmly, and told her not to worry. He'd even, much to her amazement, taken her to the hospital café and bought their equivalent of a decent coffee for her. Even if he'd then spent the entire fifteen minutes tapping away on his phone, it was _something_.

After that, everything was back to normal, except that Sherlock often came into the laboratory by himself, since John was still fitting in shifts as a locum around Sherlock's investigations. He occasionally muttered a bit about being bored and, on one occasion, moaned about 'pointless cases' that John made him take on to earn a little money. But, on the whole, his mood seemed better for a few weeks. When John was present, he was even more cheerful. He didn't seem to have been put off by John's views on his cigarette ash experiment. She and John would chat happily over tea while he worked quietly, occasionally humming snippets of Brahms. It was almost peaceful.

But then, in the autumn, his moods had grown a little darker again. They weren't as savage as they once were, but he seemed distracted. When she asked John about it, he grimaced and said something about someone having got the better of Sherlock. The impression she received was that Sherlock's pride had been dented… and yet, it seemed more than that.

When he hummed now, the haunting tune was unfamiliar to her. "One of his own compositions," John said, when she asked him. "He's been at it for weeks and can't seem to finish it. Just plays the same movement over and over. Doesn't seem to get fed up, though. He's just…reflective, I guess. He's probably still thinking of -."

He broke off suddenly and Molly prompted him: "Thinking of what?"

John hesitated. "Oh…just a case that didn't go so well."

She nodded thoughtfully, as if she understood, even though she didn't quite. "Do you mean the… the person who beat him?"

He gave her a searching look and she blushed a little. "You've given this some thought, haven't you? Well, of course - ." He broke off again, looking a little flushed himself. It was the closest either of them had come to acknowledging her feelings for Sherlock. "Well – um – anyway, I shouldn't worry about it. You know Sherlock. Always brooding on something."

"Yes, of course." She forced a smile. "So…er, what will you be up to for Christmas, then?"

He cheered up visibly. "Not really sure yet, but I'm hoping to spend a bit of it with my sister. It depends on how things are with her, really. You know – the booze and all that."

She nodded sympathetically. Having seen how stressed he got over his sister's alcoholism, she was pleased for him, but also concerned. She knew how hard it could be on the relatives of alcoholics – she saw enough of them in the morgue, grieving over someone who'd left it just a little too long to turn their lives around.

"And Sherlock?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "God knows. Does he even celebrate it? He moans enough about how pointless the Christmas decorations are, I know that. Which reminds me…" He felt in his jacket pocket for a card, which he handed to her. "Here you are – excuse the writing, I'm not great at crafting invitations. It's for a Christmas party. Thought it might be fun to do something festive – you know."

She held the card in her hand, quite touched. He'd obviously printed something cheap out on the computer and added in details of the date and time in his indecipherable doctor's scrawl. He looked a little embarrassed – she suspected he wasn't very used to hosting parties.

"It'll just be a few of us - you know. Mrs H., of course, and Greg might pop in, and – oh yes! You'll get a chance to meet Jeanette." He brightened up. "I think you're like her. She's a teacher."

"Oh, yes, how's that going?" she asked. "It must be a month now, isn't it?"

"Um – just over three weeks…but I've got a good feeling about this one."

"_Really_? She hasn't been scared off by Sherlock yet?"

"Oh, well…to tell the truth, I've kept them apart as much as possible." He didn't quite meet Molly's eyes. "It seemed like the safest option."

She smiled. He'd had a few 'girlfriends' during the last year – although, to be fair, he was quite clearly trying to settle down for a long-term relationship. It wasn't his fault that he'd been saddled with a flatmate who seemed determined to ensure that he never had the opportunity.

"Well, thank you for the invitation. I'd love to come." She tried to remember the last time she'd been invited to a party. It'd been a while, so she was genuinely warmed by his thoughtfulness.

He looked genuinely pleased. "_Good_, that's good. Only I wasn't sure whether you would be away for Christmas – family or something."

"No. There's just Mum, and she usually goes to my aunt in Scotland. I would've gone, but – you know how it is." She laughed, nervously. "Most of my colleagues have kids, and who wants to hanging around in a morgue on Christmas Eve? I don't really mind filling in for people."

"OK." He didn't fuss about it, didn't tell her he was sorry or look uncomfortable, like everyone else did. She normally hated telling people she'd be alone for Christmas, but with John, she sensed a kindred spirit. Being rather lonely himself, he understood, and merely nodded as he turned to leave. "Well, anyway, I hope you manage to get away for the party."

"I'll make sure of it. Um – John?"

He stopped and looked back at her. "Yes?"

"What are you getting Sherlock?"

He looked startled. "I hadn't given it much thought. Oh, are you thinking…? You know, I shouldn't bother – or at least don't spend too much money.. You know Sherlock – he probably won't be that interested in presents."

But Molly had a strong sense of what was right and proper when it came to Christmas parties, and she certainly couldn't attend without bringing something. Which was why she was here on Oxford Street and heading for John Lewis on a bright sunny winter morning.

Mrs Hudson turned out to be surprisingly easy. Molly had only met her a couple of times, but she reminded her of her own aunt, and she was able to pick out a perfume that seemed likely to suit the chatty old landlady well. For John, she went safe with a bottle of wine and a pair of cheery Christmas socks that she thought would make him smile.

But what could she get Sherlock?

She tried wandering around the ground floor departments, but she couldn't think of a single item that Sherlock wouldn't simply discard. Abandoning the idea for a while, she went up to ladies' fashion and splashed out on a simple but expensive black dress. The neckline was a little low and the dress clung to whatever curves she had, but it certainly fulfilled the criteria for an outfit that was as little like Molly Hooper as possible. So she purchased it, trying hard not to wince at the strain on her credit card.

She wandered around for another hour, but still couldn't find anything for Sherlock. In despair, she bought an expensive fountain pen, which seemed like the best option, but once she'd got everything home, she realised that it was as bad an idea as any of the others she'd had. As if someone like Sherlock hadn't had enough expensive gadgets in his life! He was far richer than she would ever be, and then there was the fabled Mycroft, who she had never met but who was rumoured to be fabulously wealthy.

The problem was, she mused, that she couldn't possibly compete in material terms. Something that was hopelessly expensive for her would probably be a cheap trifle to someone like Mycroft or Sherlock. What could she possibly give Sherlock that he couldn't get elsewhere?

She sat on her sofa, thinking hard…and then the answer came to her. She smiled.

She found some old-fashioned stiff note paper in her desk, a creamy, expensive sheet that would be perfect for the purpose. Then the new fountain pen – might as well get _some_ use out of it….

She smoothed out the sheet of paper on the desk, thought for a minute and then wrote in big letters across the page:

'I, the undersigned, promise to provide the bearer with the following:

5 body parts, to be chosen by the bearer and delivered to 221B Baker Street

1 corpse, donated to medical science, for the bearer's sole use for a six hour period

And no questions asked'

She signed her name underneath with a flourish. Rolling the paper up, scroll-style, she found a red ribbon to tie it with and then put it in a gift box. Wrapping the box carefully, in bright red paper, she smiled as she reflected that even Sherlock might not be able to deduce the contents until he opened the present.

* * *

Molly stood alone in the kitchen, fighting back tears.

Mrs Hudson had wandered in briefly to give her a well-meaning pat before staggering back to her chair in the lounge, unsteady on her feet. John and Jeanette appeared to be bickering in one corner of the lounge, in quiet, tense voices, trying not to be overheard. Sherlock had disappeared into his bedroom, slamming his door in John's face. The present she had wrapped so lovingly lay abandoned and unopened on the table.

What a _bloody awful_ party it had turned out to be! How could he be so _horrible_? And yes, he had apologised when he'd realised his mistake, and the kiss on the cheek had been so gentle and unexpected, but….

It wasn't just the humiliation, although that was bad enough. If there'd been _anyone_ in that room who hadn't known beforehand that she loved Sherlock, well, they certainly knew now. She could still _feel_ the hot prickle of humiliation that had spread across her body under this _stupid_ clinging dress, when he'd stood there making his cruel deductions…and then the look of shock on his face when he'd realised his mistake...

But the worse of it was not the humiliation of being exposed in such a horrible manner. It was that she should have known _better_. By now, she should have known that the party was _always _going to be a disaster. That, no matter what she did, she was _never_ going to impress him. Stupid, _stupid _Molly! Three years she had known him and at no time in those years had he given her the slightest hint that she might mean anything to him other than a conveniently-placed pathology assistant. Why couldn't she stop trying? Why did she persist in making such weak-minded fool of herself?

"Er – you OK there, Molly?"

She turned slightly to see Greg Lestrade coming into the kitchen with a glass in his hand. He looked unutterably weary and there was a hard set to his jaw that she hadn't seen before, as if he was trying to restrain his fury. She remembered suddenly that he'd also been a victim of Sherlock's 'fun'.

She smiled at him, a little timidly. She didn't know Greg all that well. Since interviewing her about 'Jim', he'd occasionally sought her out when he was in the morgue to ask her how she was. She'd gained an impression of a slightly grizzled, tough but kindly detective inspector. In an odd way, he made her feel safe – there was something brotherly in his treatment of her, almost as if he sensed that she lacked strong family support and might need a friend to turn to. Or maybe even _he_ had sensed her feelings for Sherlock before tonight, and just felt sorry for her?

She lifted her chin, trying to look tougher than she felt. "Oh, I'm OK. You know how it is – it's just the way Sherlock is."

"He's a little shit," he muttered before throwing back half a glass of red wine. "Bugger doesn't know when to shut up. Never has done."

Despite herself, she giggled at his no-nonsense manner. "But – um… you'd want to know, wouldn't you? About your wife, I mean…I'm sorry, it's really not my business - ."

He poured another glass, giving her a wry look. "Apparently, it's _everyone's_ business. You want one of these?"

She shook her head, watching as he took another gulp. It was clear that he drank more than he should, but she could hardly blame him tonight. "I dunno. Well, yeah, I suppose so, if she's still sleeping with that bastard. Just wish he could've told me in a more private way."

"Will you…will you go back to her?"

He sighed, suddenly looking very old. "Not sure. This'll be the third time. I mean, I _know_ I'm hardly ever home, but we were going to try again – she _wanted_ to try again… Guess I might as well clear out, get my own place again." He laughed, bitterly and put his empty glass on the table, leaning over it. "Obviously still can't trust her."

She looked at him, slumped over the kitchen table, his greying head bowed, and felt a sudden rush of sympathy for him. Here she was, making a fuss when Sherlock was basically just being his usual self. And at least he'd apologised to her. Whereas poor Lestrade had just had his chance at reconciliation with his wife trampled on without any compunction.

"So…what will you do tonight?"

He shrugged, looking up at her through red-rimmed eyes. "Dunno. Don't wanna go home, that's for sure. Got a few mates, but they've all got kids and a big Christmas thing going on, so they won't want to see _my_ ugly mug. Could kip on Donovan's sofa, but she might have company tonight." He gave a harsh laugh. "And I definitely don't wanna stay here."

He took another gulp, giving her a knowing look. "And I bet you don't want to either."

She nodded. "Look – you can come back to mine. Not like that," she added quickly. "Just…I've got a sofa you can use."

He looked uncomfortable. "You don't have to do that, Molly. It's not your problem."

"No, but…you might as well. Maybe things won't seem so bad in the morning." She smiled, suddenly. "You know what I could _really_ do with? A nice cup of tea, a biscuit and a bit of _really_ silly telly."

He looked at her incredulously for a minute and then laughed. "Yeah, that sounds pretty good to me. I need a break from all this drama. OK – well, if you're _sure_ you don't mind me crashing?"

"Not as long as you don't mind going now." She winced as she flexed her feet. "I'm looking forward to getting out of these uncomfortable shoes. To say nothing of this dress." She smiled, ruefully. "I don't think I'm the glamorous type, really."

He smiled back, his dark eyes crinkling attractively. "You make a pretty sight, though."

She waited for the usual flush to spread across her face at this compliment, but just for once, it didn't come. She wasn't sure why, unless it was simply because she didn't feel the remotest attraction to Greg Lestrade. She could acknowledge him as a good-looking man, but there was no specific fission of attraction. She liked him, though, and didn't like to think of him being forced to go back and face his cheating wife tonight.

"Shall we?" He offered his arm to her, and she smiled and slipped her hand through it.

* * *

Back at the flat, she was occupied with digging out spare sheets, pillows and blankets for her (fortunately) large sofa, while Greg stood around helplessly in the manner of unexpected guests everywhere. Once she'd shown him the kitchen and put the kettle on, she retired thankfully to her bedroom to fling off the hated party clothes, including those huge hoop earrings that had seemed such a good idea at the time. Pulling on slacks and her most comfortable jumper, which was festive red, she went back out into the lounge and switched on the TV, flicking to a panel show which looked silly enough to fit the bill.

"It's a rerun of Never Mind the Buzzcocks," she called out. "Hope that's OK?"

He appeared in the kitchen doorway in rolled-up shirt sleeves; while she'd been changing, he'd removed his jacket. "Don't mind as long as it's not Morse. Can't stand police dramas."

"Yes, I suppose it's a bit too much like the real thing for _you_," she mused.

He grunted, turning back into the kitchen. "More that it's _nothing_ like the real thing, which is bloody annoying. You got sugar?"

"Yes – top shelf."

Within ten minutes they were sitting on the sofa with a pot of tea and a plate of mince pies that Mrs Hudson had pressed upon them. It was…nice. She felt relaxed, almost as if she were here by herself. There was no pressure to sit up straight or mess around with her hair or lipstick. She felt quite happy to slump back and put her slippered feet up on a corner of the coffee table.

Greg seemed equally relaxed, stretching his long legs out and balancing his mug on his stomach as he laughed at the panel show and made comments about the sillier answers. He seemed to know a bit about contemporary music, particularly rock and heavy metal – more than Molly, anyway, who tended to stick with fairly middle-of-the-road pop or light classical if she was in the mood. But he didn't criticise her lack of musical knowledge, which made a pleasant change.

As the show ended, he sighed and gulped down the rest of his tea. "Thanks for this, I really appreciate the – the _normality_ of it, if you know what I mean."

She _did_ know. Sometimes, it was a little tiring to be up there on the knife's edge with Sherlock. For the first time, she felt a little sympathy for John – it was just possible that living with Sherlock was not quite the dream it seemed. "You're welcome." His face had darkened again, as if he had been abruptly reminded of his personal problems, so she added, "For what it's worth, I'm really sorry. You don't deserve to be treated like that."

"You mean, by Sherlock or by my wife?" He raised a wry eyebrow, and she found herself blushing.

"Well, I meant your wife, but I shouldn't have said anything. I mean, I know it's not my place to comment."

He sighed. "Nah, you're right. I've known it for some time. Years, probably. It's just – you keep trying, you know? Yeah, I'm not perfect and neither is she, but I _do_ love her…or I _did_, anyway." He put down his mug and leaned back, not really seeing the TV anymore. "Maybe I don't, now. I dunno." He grimaced. "People get divorced at the drop of a hat these days, but…other people, they – _we_ – persist, no matter what. Don't we?"

He looked at her, with dark eyes that were suddenly extremely knowing. She'd always thought of him as something of a plod, mainly because the only time she ever saw him was while he was being derided by Sherlock for his lack of imagination or wrong-footed by the consulting detective's quick-fire deductions. She was beginning to realise that there was much more to the DI than that. After all, it had taken more than Sherlock's help to get him to the top of Scotland Yard.

She looked down at her lap. "I don't suppose there's much point in denying it. I mean, he more-or-less _deduced_ it in front of everyone, didn't he?"

He hummed his agreement. "Well, I'm not gonna deny that you picked a bloody awkward object for your affections. But you probably know that, anyway."

She looked up at him; he was slumped back on the sofa, gazing into the middle distance. "You've known him for a while, haven't you?"

"Yeah, we go back a few years." He laughed. "I'm not gonna tell you how we met - you probably don't want to know. Gonna tell you this, though. There's only that many people that he shows himself to – I mean the 'real' Sherlock, warts and all. Everyone else, he's constantly putting on one disguise or another. He might be a bastard, but at least he's an honest one with the few people that he gives the slightest damn about. He might've treated you like shit tonight, but at least you know that he's relaxed enough to treat you like shit. For Sherlock, that _means _something."

He looked at her, intently. "I don't want you to get your hopes up or anything, but at least you know you mean _something_ to him. Even if that's just a useful person in a useful place. Better than nothing at all. If he didn't care about you at all, he'd probably be polite."

"That's…" she tried to sort it out in her mind. "That seems so contrary. That he can be so cruel to someone he likes."

"Yeah? Well, that's Sherlock for you." He stretched and yawned, covering his mouth. "Sorry. Anyway, I've given up trying to work him out. He doesn't fit any of the usual profiles, that's for sure."

"You must be tired, let's get this cleared up," she said, leaning forward to gather up the tea things, just as her phone sounded its shrill ring. "Hang on a minute while I get that…"

He took the tray out as she answered the phone. It was the on-duty pathologist; she was having a busy night and another body had just arrived unexpectedly, so would Molly mind very much coming in? She'd ask someone else, of course, but they all had families and she didn't like to impose…

"OK to impose on _me_, though," she muttered as she put the phone down. She had been tempted to say that _yes_, she _did_ mind as she currently had company. That would've shaken them up at work…

"Greg? I have to go into work. You're welcome to stay here, though."

"Are you sure that's OK?" He appeared in the kitchen door. "Don't you want me to drive you in?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you over the limit? No – don't worry, I can get a taxi. You might as well use my bed – the sheets are clean and it sounds like I'm going to be all night anyway. No - really, that's fine. It'll be more comfortable than the sofa."

* * *

It had been a vicious assault. Molly looked at the woman's bashed-in head with pity. This had seemed personal; the rest of the body looked untouched. It would be traumatic for a relative to make the identification. She noted, a little absently, that the woman had clearly been a real beauty. Her white, perfectly formed body seemed to glisten under the harsh morgue lights. She seemed out of place here, so slack and lifeless, and she felt a little sick at the thought of this lovely young woman being attacked so brutally and with such obvious intent.

"Why was she brought here?" she asked Carol, the on-duty pathologist. The paperwork indicated that the body had been transferred to Bart's from the morgue at UCH.

"God knows. Special request. She has a provisional ID, we're just waiting for family confirmation. Someone's coming in shortly." The pathologist threw her gloves in the bin, having just finished her preliminary examination of another corpse. "Can you hold the fort here? I need to go and speak to the wife of this other one…"

Molly nodded as her colleague left the morgue. She looked down at the woman one last time before covering her with a sheet.

Carol popped her head back around the corner. "Molly! They're here."

"OK." She turned towards the door, preparing to greet the grief-stricken relatives…and stopped dead.

Sherlock was coming in. He was accompanied by a tall, smartly dressed older man, who was addressing Sherlock as they walked. His voice was smooth and a little arrogant; the voice of a man used to giving commands.

"Had her brought here – your home from home." He acknowledged Molly with a quick, appraising look. She had the strangest feeling that she'd seen him before somewhere…

Sherlock also gave her a sharp look. "You didn't need to come in, Molly." His voice was curt, abrupt.

She attempted a slight smile, a little puzzled by his comment. What was it to do with him? "That's OK. Everyone else was busy with…Christmas." She gestured to the body, a million questions buzzing through her mind: _who was she? How did Sherlock know her? Why had he never mentioned her? Why hadn't John?_ "Er – the face is a bit, sort of, bashed up, so it might be a bit difficult."

She pulled back the sheet to reveal the woman's face. Sherlock stood quite still, staring at the bloody features, his own face utterly blank.

"That's her, isn't it?" the other man asked. So, she must have been a friend – _or more perhaps?_ – of Sherlock, and not him.

Sherlock gestured, a little jerkily. "Show me the rest of her."

For a moment, she thought her legs had turned to lead, but then she moved slowly, grasping the sheet and pulling it with her as she walked slowly along the side of the table, exposing those glistening flanks. Then she watched as Sherlock's eyes roamed down and up the body once, almost greedily.

He turned away, abruptly, and began to walk out of the morgue. "That's her." The words sounded stark and bitter.

Molly felt a cold sliver of ice go down her spine. His tone and these bitten-off words told her all she needed to know.

The other man turned to watch him leave. "Thank you, Miss Hooper."

She had enough presence of mind to wonder how he knew her surname, as she didn't have her badge on… Did it matter, though? She felt cold, frightened. Who _was_ this woman to Sherlock? What did her death mean to him? He'd never looked so _vulnerable_ before.

"Who is she?" She swallowed a little, trying to moisten her dry mouth. "How did Sherlock recognise her from…not her face?"

The man smiled politely and turned to follow Sherlock without answering her.

Molly stared down at the naked woman. Long-limbed and slender – the kind of body that suggested the same animal grace that she always associated with Sherlock. The hair on the undamaged part of her head was black and glossy, expensively kept. The nails were perfectly manicured, unlike her own, bitten short by nerves. The hands were white and delicate; the feet small and graceful. They would look perfect in high heels; no stumbling and painfully cramped toes for this woman.

She was exactly the type of woman that Molly had visualised as Sherlock's likely partner in the early days of their acquaintance. That was before she realised how unlikely it was that he _had_ one, of either gender. But…there had been that conversation in the lab, where he told John he was straight; that it was the female form that attracted him. She remembered the slight flushing along those perfect cheekbones. At first, she had thought that he was just embarrassed by the conversation, but it had been more than that. _Who _had he been thinking of back then? In her wildest dreams, she had thought – hoped – that it might have been her…

"Don't be so _stupid_, Molly Hooper," she told herself, firmly. "You know it was never you." She needed to focus on poor Sherlock...how must he be feeling right now?

She gave the woman one last searching look and then gently pulled the cover back over her.


	5. Chapter 5

**Being a glutton for punishment, I am currently writing 2 multi-chapter fics in 2 fandoms, which is kind of confusing! Anyway, both fandoms come together here, in a small and very nerdy way. In the Hound of the Baskervilles episode in Series 2, Sherlock comments on Greg being "brown as a nut" (which BTW is also Sherlock Holmes' initial description of Dr Watson in the original stories). Anyway, Mark Gatiss allegedly put that line in because they couldn't disguise Rupert Graves' tan during the shoot in Dartmoor…which was caused by the fact that he'd just been in Guadeloupe filming a guest slot on Death in Paradise (which I'm also writing for)! So…there you go. Nerd alert over!**

**BTW, if you're tempted to check out Death in Paradise, I should warn you – it's really not **_**quite**_** Sherlock. Even its actors admit it's a bit of escapist fun and not to be taken that seriously. Nevertheless, it's quite charming and some of us Brits are fond of it because the BBC very cannily airs it in January, when we all want to escape from the British weather!**

**This chapter contains dialogue from The Reichenbach Fall, for which I gratefully acknowledge the transcripts written by Ariane Devere. I actually find these types of chapters really hard to write, because it feels like I'm just spouting stuff from the script all the time instead of being original (although I do try to put in Molly's extra perspective). Still, it does fit with the overall plot, I guess!**

**And, of course, the usual disclaimers apply –not mine, no money.**

* * *

Chapter 5

Molly intended to be gentle with Sherlock the next time she saw him; after all, the poor man had (presumably) been bereaved. She expected a subdued, perhaps even grief-stricken, Sherlock when he next walked into her laboratory. But, of course, the consulting detective didn't conform to the usual rules.

Admittedly, he appeared to be obsessive about a smartphone that belonged to a woman, but he didn't seem particularly interested in the _woman_ herself – more the _phone_, muttering something about people doing silly things and playing games. And he didn't rise to her tentative suggestion of a girlfriend, which was oddly disappointing. Having resolved to _definitely_ move on and look for love elsewhere, it would have been nice to know for _certain_ that Sherlock's affections were (or had been) definitely occupied elsewhere.

Having _finally_ resolved to move on and forget Sherlock, it was surprising how easy it seemed. In the first place, she saw a little less of Sherlock these days. Judging by John's blog and, increasingly, the tabloid press, he seemed to be a lot busier with cases. Some of them were high-profile, and for a while she'd grown used to seeing newspaper photographs of Sherlock looking grim-faced next to a grimacing John.

And even when he did come in, although she still experienced the usual physical, heart-thumping response to his presence, she was convinced that the effect was rather _less_ these days. She prided herself that she could string together perfectly logical sentences nowadays, even on the rare occasions when those sharp eyes were focused on her.

Greg had separated from his wife and celebrated by splashing out on a Caribbean break. When he returned, he'd met her for a drink, looking as relaxed as she'd ever seen him. He was a good looking man, surprisingly fun to be with, and seemed quite interested in her, but something made her hesitate. Rather like John, he'd become a good friend, and she was worried about spoiling that. And also, he knew Sherlock…and that felt wrong. Not that Sherlock would give a damn if she got into a relationship with someone he knew, but Molly felt that she needed to separate her 'Sherlock life' from her ordinary life.

Against her better judgement, she'd agreed to meet Greg for lunch, but he rang her in the morning to cancel, as he had to dash off to Dartmoor. He sounded stressed, muttering something about "those idiots getting in trouble again". He didn't have to tell her that he was referring to Sherlock and John. No one else seemed to give him quite as much grief.

When he returned, the opportunity seemed to have passed - Greg remained friendly, but didn't seem bothered about taking things any further, much to her secret relief. Sherlock and John had also returned from whatever they'd been getting up to in Devon, but again Sherlock seemed quite busy. Molly found herself missing the old days when he was scratching around for cases and doing his endless experiments in the laboratory whenever he was especially bored. OK, she'd had to take the risk of being insulted, but at least he'd brought a little colour into her day, and there was always the bonus of a chat with John.

Of course, she could always keep up with his activities in the newspapers. The initially respectful stories were growing a little bolder and more salacious, with the paparazzi taking opportunities to snap blurry pictures of the detective and his blogger. She couldn't say what Sherlock made of this, as she hadn't seen him for weeks.

In the meantime, she'd struck up a conversation in the hospital canteen with a rather nice male nurse called Paul. At first, she'd been a little suspicious – after all, 'Jim' had been an apparently friendly easy-going co-worker, and she still had no real idea how much of a nuisance he'd made of himself with Sherlock. Looking back, she'd fallen in with him rather too quickly, quite likely out of desperation. But, gradually, she'd found herself returning Paul's smiles and exchanging a few pleasantries as they queued for their food. Eventually, his obvious interest in her seemed sweet and even natural rather than creepy.

After a few tentative coffee dates, they'd managed to align their shifts and had arranged to meet for lunch at a café a few streets from Bart's. Paul was…nice. There was no other word for it. She didn't find his company all that exciting, and he certainly didn't provoke the same physical reactions as Sherlock, but it was just pleasant to be appreciated. She didn't anticipate much coming of it, but that was OK.

So she was looking forward to her lunch date and it was therefore inevitable that Sherlock chose to re-enter her life just as she was hurrying off for it. There might have been a time when being offered lunch by a certain man might have been more of a thrill than it now was, especially as she was experienced in the way of Sherlock these days. If the hastily produced bag of crisps hadn't been a clue, being frogmarched back to the laboratory was a very strong indicator that 'lunch' actually meant work.

Her weak protests died in her throat when Sherlock announced, rather jauntily: "It's one of your old boyfriends – we're trying to track him down. He's been a bit naughty!"

She stopped dead and stared at him.

John looked equally shocked. "It's Moriarty?"

"Of _course_ it's Moriarty."

_Jim_? Jim was _Moriarty_? She'd seen the newspapers about the trial, of course, including the photographs of the proclaimed criminal mastermind, but he looked somehow different. She hadn't connected the good-looking but cold-eyed, sharp-suited man that had been pictured outside the Old Bailey even _remotely_ with what she remembered of gawky, ever-cheerful Jim in his fun t-shirts and tight jeans.

She cleared her throat. "Um…Jim actually wasn't even my boyfriend. We went out three times. I ended it."

Sherlock didn't seem remotely interested in the fine definitions. "Yes, and then he stole the Crown Jewels, broke into the Bank of England and organised a prison break at Pentonville. For the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly."

He aimed a fake smile at her, waved the Quavers temptingly and swept into the laboratory.

She stared after him for a moment, speechless.

Yep. That was the old Sherlock she knew and…loved.

She sighed, reaching for her mobile to ring Paul and make her apologies.

* * *

It appeared that the experiment involved identifying traces found in some oil taken from a foot print, to work out where in the Greater London area the wearer had been present. Sherlock seemed even more distracted than usual, muttering to himself and more than once calling her 'John' instead of Molly as they worked together. It didn't bother her overly, although she did pointedly correct him at one point.

At one point, she distinctly heard him mutter: "I owe you."

She looked at him in surprise, wondering who he was talking to – her or John? He was busy staring at a sample through the microscope and seemed unaware of her scrutiny.

She'd brought her laptop over and standing next to him, typing in his results. Secretly she wondered if he really needed her to do that – surely his mind palace would retain all the facts anyway? But Molly was nothing if not meticulous and she had always kept records of the experiments she had worked on with him, for her own education if nothing else.

She sensed a certain tension radiating from him; more than usual when he was on a live case. He could quite often be snappy and irritated or else crackling with energy as a breakthrough occurred, but today he was neither of those things. If anything, she would have said that he was quite subdued.

"What did you mean by 'I owe you'?" she asked, curiously.

Across the table, John moved away and she was aware of Sherlock stiffening and lifting his head, his intent eyes following the doctor's movement.

She asked again, tentatively but determinedly - it felt important to know, for reasons she couldn't fully comprehend. "You said, 'I owe you'. You were muttering it while you were working."

"Nothing. Mental note." His tone was brisk, dismissive.

She looked at him. His face was drawn and even paler than usual, and she was struck by the misery she could see in his eyes as he looked at John. A certain memory came…

"You're a bit like my dad. He's dead." She cringed – she'd hardly been aware of opening her mouth. What a ridiculous thing to say! "No – sorry -."

He cut across her, his voice firm as his attention returned to the microscope. "Molly, _please _don't feel the need to make conversation. It's really not your area."

It was the old sardonic Sherlock, but she ignored him. "When he was dying, he was always cheerful; he was lovely…except when he thought no one could see." She swallowed. "I saw him once. He looked _sad_."

"_Molly_ -." The word was a threatening growl.

She continued, feeling her confidence grow. "_You_ look sad -," she glanced over at John, "– when you think he can't see you."

She saw that she'd hit a nerve. He stopped his study of the sample and looked across the laboratory. John seemed oblivious, his attention focused on some papers. Then Sherlock turned his head very deliberately and looked at her, his eyes questioning.

"Are you OK?" she asked.

He narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to answer her, but she rushed in, anticipating the clipped '_fine_' before it left his lips. "And don't just _say_ you are, because I _know_ what that means…looking sad when you think no one can see you."

His eyes widened in surprise. For perhaps the first time ever, she had caught him unawares. "_You _can see me."

"_I_ don't count."

She said it calmly, having had plenty of time to get used to the idea. When had she _ever_ counted, where Sherlock was concerned? Even during the days before John, she'd been little more than a sounding board, quite probably just a present alternative for the skull. It had hurt for _years_, but now… what did it _matter_? She had her role, and it might not be very glamorous or noticeable or even acknowledged, but with every fibre of her being she _wanted_ to help this horrible, crazy, infuriating, _brilliant_ man.

Was that what _real_ love was? Not quivering with anticipation every time he appeared or dreaming of romance and flowers, but simply, honestly, wanting to make someone happy? Wanting to support them, look after them…wanting to _care_ for them?

Maybe that, quite simply, was it – that she'd moved on from being _in_ love with him to simply _loving_ him.

He was staring at her as if he'd never seen her before. He seemed lost for words, but she could see the shifting deductions taking place behind his eyes – they were grey today. Confusion, followed by the familiar quick-fire mental flickering through the evidence…followed by a sudden revelation.

Feeling that she didn't really want to know what was on his mind, she continued, quickly. "What I'm trying to say is that, if there's _anything _I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me -." She broke off, looking away; _that _had come out wrong. "No, I just mean if there's anything you need…" She shook her head, resisting a sudden urge to smile. "It's _fine_."

And it was. It really _was_ fine. She felt at peace with her decision. He still looked confused and she wanted, more than anything, to kiss that perplexed frown off the bridge of his nose…but it was an affectionate impulse, there was nothing sexual in it, not like the fantasies she'd so often had in the past. Just a loving gesture, to make him know that he wasn't alone. She was _certain_ of it.

"Wha – what could I need from _you_?"

His tone was more tentative than she had ever known it, and it wasn't an obvious question. She sensed it wasn't really addressed at her at all. It was almost as if he were thinking aloud, trying to work something out. Nevertheless, she attempted to answer it.

"Nothing." It was intended to reassure, but she shrugged, not sure he understood her – and not even sure that _she_ did. It was one thing to make the offer to help, but in reality there was probably nothing she could do to help him. "I dunno. You could probably say 'thank you', actually."

She gave him an expectant look, trying to judge how much that quicksilver mind had deduced of her real feelings. From the way his mouth twitched, she suspected he was not sure how to react.

"Thank…you…?"

There was almost a question in his voice and he frowned, looking away.

Sensing his need to process the conversation without interruption, she backed away. "I'm just going to get some crisps. Do you want anything?"

He opened his mouth, appearing to consider her words with more seriousness than they warranted. Her own lips twitched at the sight of a genuinely confused Sherlock Holmes. "It's OK, I know you don't."

"Well, actually, maybe I'll -," he began, but she cut across him, suddenly finding that she needed her _own_ space, and repeating her last words firmly.

"I _know_ you don't."

As she walked through the door and along the corridor, her eyes stung with unshed tears.

* * *

Molly clicked Exit on the records management programme and then closed down the computer. She sighed, rubbing her tired eyes, and winced as she glanced at her watch. 2AM.

She'd been off duty since 10, but bloody Curtis Norton, a cack-handed 21 year old graduate who treated the corpses flippantly and was even worse with computers, had messed up all the record data that had been added since the last system update. Personally, she'd rather give him the sack, but it wasn't her decision. She'd agreed, very reluctantly, to help him re-enter the data, which had involved sorting out files for the last two days; by the time she'd done that, the annoying git had disappeared. Fuming, she'd sat down and got on with the work. She had a sense of responsibility that kept her to the task, but she had determined that she would speak to Mike the next day.

She pushed herself to her feet. She was in a small side-office off one of the lesser used laboratories. The majority of the staff were long-gone; the only ones left would be the on-duty forensic pathologist and a laboratory assistant, who usually stayed near to the morgue in case of new arrivals.

She moved into the empty laboratory, switched off the light and walked slowly towards the door. She felt tired – bone tired. It was more than just a long day at work and the tedious administration task she had just completed. She felt emotionally drained too.

Damn Sherlock! Just when her life seemed to be going in the right direction, he would come back into it and send her back into a spin. After she'd left the laboratory, she'd realised that she really didn't want to meet Paul – not today and not ever. There was no point, and it was unfair on him anyway. It was wrong to pretend something that you didn't - and could never - feel.

She had meant what she said to Sherlock. She knew now that she loved him, no matter how he treated her or how little her feelings mattered to him. You couldn't make yourself _not_ love someone. It was what it was, there was nothing to be done. And there was really no point crying about it, she told herself firmly. And no point in blaming Sherlock either. He couldn't help her feelings. Yes, of course he flirted with her deliberately to get what he wanted, but this went beyond that. If he _never_ turned his charms on her again, she knew she would still help him if she possibly could.

It was love. That was all.

She sighed and put her hand on the door handle.

"You're wrong, you know."

Her heart stuttered as she gasped in shock, spinning to face the shadowy figure.

It was Sherlock. Of course it was. He stood in the shadows, his face turned away from her.

"You _do_ count," he continued, his voice calm. "You've _always_ counted and I've always trusted you."

He turned his head towards her, and she saw his eyes glittering oddly in the dim light that came through the crack in the door. "But you _were _right. I'm not OK."

She swallowed, forcing a calm tone into her voice. "Tell me what's wrong."

He walked towards her, slowly. As he approached, the shadows fell from his features and the expression on his face frightened her. "Molly, I think I'm going to die."

She took a deep, shuddery breath, not sure what to say. He spoke the words so calmly, but his eyes were…he looked _devastated_. And yet his expression was firm, determined. Did he mean it? He _couldn't _– could he? He didn't look like the type of man who was currently contemplating killing himself, and the Sherlock _she_ knew would have never feared death by someone else's hand.

She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, determinedly. "What do you need?"

He was still moving towards her, with his usual cat-like elegance, but without the impetuosity. "If I wasn't everything that you think I am – everything that _I_ think I am… would you still want to help me?"

He was right in front of her now and she had to tilt her chin higher to meet his intense gaze. She felt her peripheral vision receding, her focus narrowing to his eyes alone. They were blue tonight, she noted absently. Dark blue, and as their eyes locked, she saw his pupils dilating slightly. She felt her heart beating faster. Attraction or something else? She couldn't tell.

Oddly, she felt a strange calm coming over her. She felt, ridiculous as it might seem, that her entire _life_ had simply been leading up to this moment. As if _here_, at this moment, the decision she made would affect whatever happened to her in the future.

Dimly, she heard herself repeating: "What do you need?" It was a phrase she'd said to him _so_ often before, over the years, and had received so many contrasting answers to, from the mildly impatient to the downright offensive.

He stepped even closer to her, his mouth forming the one reply that she'd so often wished to hear.

"_You_."

* * *

Molly watched as the trolley was wheeled through into the mortuary, a sheet pulled a little haphazardly over the body. A limp bloody hand had fallen from the sheet and hung over the side; the pale fingers splayed stiffly at an angle that was entirely unnatural in a living body. She could just see the cuff of that dark Belstaff coat he loved so much…

As there was no A&amp;E at Bart's but equally no time to take the fatally injured man anywhere else, he had been wheeled into a small resuscitation room in the large specialist intensive care unit. The door had remained shut for only fifteen minutes through, before the consultant had presumably decided that the man was beyond saving – and in truth, he had quite certainly been dead from the moment he hit the ground.

She followed the shrouded trolley. She already had a file in her hand, ready to provide the facts needed by the pathologist, who had recently transferred from Guy's and St Thomas' and had never met Sherlock. _Yes_, she could identify the man as Mr Sherlock Holmes as she knew him well; _yes_, there were the distinguishing marks mentioned in the file – _here_ and _here_. Yes, the next-of-kin was a Mr Mycroft Holmes, and if the pathologist was happy to leave it to her, she would contact him and arrange the formal identification…

She glanced over her shoulder. Further down the corridor, John was slumped down in a chair, resembling nothing so much as a rag doll, with his arms hanging uselessly at his sides. His eyes were open but unseeing as he stared at his feet. She had thought he would have insisted on being present at the resuscitation attempt, but he must have guessed at the futility of the attempt. Even from this distance, she could see that the adrenaline produced by a combination of horror and grief had finally left him, and he was close to physical collapse. The consultant bent over him and touched his shoulder, appearing to ask him a question, but he didn't seem to know that she was there.

Her heart ached at the sight. She desperately wanted to go to him - hold him and attempt to console him. Somehow she managed to steel herself to turn away. She took a deep, shaky breath and followed the body of Sherlock Holmes into the mortuary.


	6. Chapter 6

**Oh, I just couldn't resist this scene! **

**Usual disclaimers apply - all belongs to ACD and the mighty Mofftiss. Oh, and I know that they're going with a 2 year absence in the series, but I'm sticking my vision of 3 years.**

* * *

Chapter 6

Molly Hooper stuck her key into the external door of her block of flats, heaving a sigh of relief as she did so. It'd been a hell of a day, and then there was that conversation with Gareth to think about…

She took the stairs slowly. She had a flat on the sixth (and top) floor of a smallish block near Belsize Park Tube. There _was_ a lift, but Molly hated being confined in small places, always had for some reason, no doubt an only half-remembered trauma from early childhood. Besides, she tended to use the stairs as a test of her own fitness levels. Since she'd entered her thirties, she'd noticed that she couldn't skip up them in _quite_ the same manner. Maybe it was time to give the gym another go…always assuming she could spare the time.

The top landing was in darkness – the stupid communal light had gone again and clearly no one had bothered to let the agents know yet. She muttered to herself about the inconvenience, but wasn't as stressed as she might have been a few years' back. She'd stopped peering nervously around every dark corner and no longer carried a mace spray in her handbag. According to Sherlock, Jim Moriarty was gone and never likely to return – he'd been very confident about that.

Sherlock… Where could he be now? It had nearly four months since he'd last broken in. During the first year after his 'death', he'd come and gone so often that she'd facetiously offered to get him a key cut. But the visits had tailed off; there'd been a nine month gap in the second year, and then, after that, he'd only turn up intermittently and usually only to use her facilities for a short period or to get her to check the odd injury that he'd not been able to treat himself.

She'd become something of a dab hand at first aid, thanks to Sherlock's ability to get himself into trouble. She'd even dug pellets out of his leg and injected him with strong antibiotics that he'd procured in some devious manner. She'd never been squeamish when it came to blood and guts. Which made Gareth's suggestion even more interesting… But then, she'd never been good with _people_… She sighed again. Probably best to have a chat with Mike tomorrow before making any decisions.

She walked confidently across the dark landing to her door, feeling a familiar sense of satisfaction as she did so. She'd been renting the flat for several years while saving up for her own place, which was no mean feat for a single person in London. Then, last year, the owner had announced his intention to put it up for sale and Molly had seized the opportunity to get on the property ladder. It was a tiny flat, allegedly two bedroomed, although one was really a box room, but it was _hers_. And one of the benefits of being on the top floor was that she had a good view from her tiny balcony of Hampstead Heath over the rooftops of north London.

As she put her key in the door, she could hear her telephone ringing. She fumbled with the catch, pushed the door open and hurried in, leaving it open behind her as she dashed for the phone.

"Hello?" She was panting from the exertion of climbing the stairs and tried to calm her breathing by inhaling slowly through her nose.

"Good evening, Miss Hooper." The voice was quiet, cultured.

"Who is this?" Even as she asked, a memory rose…of this voice and a night-time mortuary with the pale body of a savagely beaten woman gleaming under the harsh lights - _"It is her, isn't it?"_. And again, some months later, of a man who had stood still and looked briefly at the corpse of his brother before giving her a polite "Thank you" and walking out again.

"Don't you think you have become a little careless, Miss Hooper? Walking home alone, entering your flat without first checking whether anyone is watching, and leaving your door open?"

"What is this? Who _are_ you?" She felt a cold shiver going down her spine as she glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting to see someone standing there. The doorway was empty, but she walked over and shut the door, quickly.

"Fortunately for _you_…someone who means you no harm. You need not worry, Miss Hooper – no one has followed you up the stairs." The voice was firm and quite confident. "I have…ensured it."

She frowned. "Is this…Mr Holmes?"

There was the minutest of pauses, almost as if the speaker had been caught out, and then a short, dry laugh. "_Very_ good, Miss Hooper."

"Why have you contacted me? And how did you get my number?" Even as she said it, she realised what a stupid question _that_ was. He was something to do with secret services, wasn't he?

Thankfully, he didn't answer it. "May I make a request of you, Miss Hooper? Please go to your window and look at the street opposite. Do you see a black limousine?"

She peered through the window. Sure enough, a large black car was lingering at the pavement across the street. "I see it."

"Good. May I request that you come down to meet it?"

She felt her lips twitch. This was the voice of a man quite used to having his orders obeyed. "Is that a…command?"

Again, a slight pause. "Shall we just say, Miss Hooper, that it will be to your advantage to indulge me?"

She looked down at the car. Something told her that it would not be going anywhere any time soon, unless she was in it. "Ok. Give me a minute."

"Certainly."

The line went dead, and she stared at it, a little disbelieving. She'd heard rumours…somewhere in the back of her mind, she seemed to remember John Watson once complaining about being 'kidnapped' on a regular basis by Sherlock's older brother. But why _her_?

She wondered, a little uneasily, if he had suddenly found out that she'd helped Sherlock fake his death. Did he think that she would know where his brother was? At least she wouldn't need to lie about _that_ – she had absolutely no idea. Sherlock had always been very careful not to tell her where he had been or where he was going, and she had schooled herself to repress her curiosity.

She realised that she was still frozen, staring at her phone and she shook herself impatiently. This wouldn't do. The man might give the impression that she had a choice, but she was under no illusions that if she refused, he'd find a less courteous way of making her meet him.

As she locked her door and went back down the stairs, she felt more excited than scared. Was this, in fact, news of Sherlock? For all she knew, Mycroft Holmes had been in on the whole affair. She'd followed Sherlock's instructions about the formal identification of the look-a-like corpse, and had been struck at the time by the emotionless manner in which his older brother had provided the required confirmation. He had merely gazed at 'Sherlock' for a few moments, his face entirely blank, before nodding his head sharply. At the time, she'd been shocked by his apparent lack of grief, but now she wondered whether Mycroft had been in on the secret all along.

On the other hand, she couldn't know for certain, and she would need all her wits to get through this encounter without giving Sherlock away. Her heart sank a little at the prospect. Mycroft was, quite clearly, an extraordinarily intelligent man. From what John had said, he sounded somewhat prescient – or at least the doctor had once complained that "he always looks as if his eyes are drilling through my skull to find out exactly what I'm thinking".

Apart from their two fleeting encounters in the mortuary, Molly had never met this fabled Holmes brother. She could only assume she wasn't considered important enough. From John's occasional comments and the gossip she'd picked up from Mrs Hudson, he sounded like a distant, emotionless man – although frankly she couldn't imagine anyone who was _less_ emotional than Sherlock. All in all, she should really be feeling more apprehensive than she was. In fact, her body buzzed with adrenaline as she hurried across the road to the waiting car. It'd been far too quiet recently...

The rear door opened as she approached the car. She didn't know exactly _what _she had been expecting, but she was still taken aback to discover that Mr Holmes was not in the car. Instead, a smartly dressed, rather attractive woman looked out at her and jerked her head to indicate Molly should get in.

She shuffled onto the seat next to the woman, who gave her a brief smile before turning her attention back to an expensive smartphone.

There was an expectant silence as the car moved away, so smoothly that Molly hardly noticed. She felt obliged to fill it. "Um…I'm Molly Hooper."

Again a brief smile and an interrogative, but hardly informative "Yes".

Molly felt unkempt next to this beautiful stranger. She noticed that the woman had the same glossy, expensively-kept hair as that woman in the morgue that Sherlock had identified. She was slim and elegant too, and Molly squirmed at the thought of the stain on her jumper, the fraying hem of her trousers, the scuffed toes of her boots and her messily pulled back hair.

The woman didn't respond further or offer her own name to Molly. She glanced out of the window, feeling more than a little nervous. She hadn't just fallen into a trap, had she? Had that _really _been Mycroft Holmes on the phone?

"So…it must be really interesting – working for Mr Holmes, I mean," she ventured, cautiously.

The woman smiled but didn't look up from her phone. She seemed to be typing very intently.

Molly sighed and looked out of her tinted window again. This must be the fabled 'Anthea' that she'd heard Sherlock and John discussing once. John had been trying to taunt Sherlock into giving him the PA's real name by claiming that Sherlock didn't really know it, and Sherlock had scoffed but had not risen to the bait.

She tried to focus on the passing buildings, attempting to work out where they were going. She should've been doing that from the start, she realised – or at least it was the kind of thing that people did in the spy novels when they were kidnapped, wasn't it? Actually, the more she thought about it, the sillier it seemed. What use would such information be? Perhaps she would be able to text her final location to Greg, so he could at least come to collect her dumped corpse?

She had to stifle a snort of slightly hysterical laughter at the notion. The woman next to her made no indication that she'd heard anything. And, in the end, the half-imagined techniques of counting time on her watch and keeping track of left and right turns were entirely unnecessary since, when the car _did _stop, it was in a recognisable location - a side road off the Islington High Street, close to Angel tube station.

She looked enquiringly at 'Anthea', but the woman merely nodded her head towards the door again. Tentatively, Molly opened it and stepped out.

Instantly, a man stood by her side, directing her steps with a light but meaningful touch to her elbow. She found herself stepping through the door of what looked to be a fairly exclusive restaurant.

A restaurant it certainly was, but the very few, beautifully laid, tables were empty in the dimly-lit interior. Only one table appeared to be in use, at the far corner of the room. A tall man stood by it.

The man at her side gestured towards the distant figure and then disappeared silently, just as quickly as he had appeared.

Mycroft Holmes (and she could recall him with perfect clarity) was indeed tall, even taller than Sherlock, although far less skinny in appearance. He was by no means overweight though, despite her half-remembered memories of Sherlock's derogatory remarks concerning his weight and diet status. She supposed that, to Sherlock, everyone looked fat.

He wore an expensive dark grey suit that made him look older than he was. Sherlock had made it sound as if his older brother might just as easily have been his own father, and on the two occasions that she'd met Mycroft Holmes, she hadn't had time to form more than the haziest of impressions of his age. So it was a shock to realise, as she approached him, that he was probably no more than seven or eight years older than his brother; no older than mid-forties, and with a healthy head of reddish-brown hair that showed no signs of grey.

He was pale but lacked Sherlock's ethereal, other-worldly colouring, all ever-shifting eye colours and moods. Instead, his eyes were solidly steel-grey and she suspected that his basic nature was just as solid, and perhaps as cold and unyielding. His nose was long, which gave him an aristocratic look, and his lips were thin and compressed, possibly by the careful repressed of emotion over a long period of time. For all that, his expression, as he looked at her, was not unkind. He lacked Sherlock's obvious attractions, but he was still a good-looking man, in a quiet way.

She suddenly realised that she had been staring at him quite unabashedly, and blushed. "Sorry. I'm not normally so rude."

The straight lips twitched a little. "Not at all, Miss Hooper. Now that we have our full measure of one another…", he gestured towards the table, "…perhaps you would care to join me for supper?"

She followed his hand and her eyes widened. There was a carafe of wine sitting on the table, and she didn't have to know much about vintages to guess at the quality or the cost. It was _that_ kind of restaurant, she supposed – the kind where, if you needed to know the cost in advance, you wouldn't be able to afford it. Mycroft looked like the kind of man who never needed to worry about the bill.

She felt seriously out of her depth…but then she had a wealth of experience of _that_. She lifted her chin, summoned up every ounce of the courage that she had once needed to face Sherlock, and smiled at him. "Well, I've only got pasta in the flat so…why not? Thank you."

That earned her a keen glance, with just a suggestion of approval. She was struck by how old-fashioned he seemed in his mannerisms, as he politely led her to her chair. And there was his use of the word 'supper'. She didn't think she'd heard dinner described as that outside of an Enid Blyton book. Oddly, the phrase made her believe for the first time that this man really _could_ have been brought up with Sherlock, who occasionally used old-fashioned words himself. She'd once heard him arguing with Mycroft over the phone about something he had done that had, apparently, "upset _Mummy_".

Being occupied with trying to hide her smirk at the thought of 'Mummy', she forget to be nervous as she sat down, although the nerves returned as a silent waiter appeared from nowhere and handed her a menu. It was in French, and languages had never been Molly's strong point.

Mycroft appeared not to notice her discomfort – or else he was too polite to comment. "I _would_ recommend the veal," he said, in a comfortable manner, "but it might not be to your taste. Perhaps a touch rich. May I recommend the Soupe aux Chataignes to start, followed by the Rissotto De Potiron?"

She was none the wiser, but nodded, rather weakly. If this Holmes was anything like his brother, he would probably be able to deduce her tastes from her appearance, anyway. He gave the orders in perfect French and the waiter took the menus and departed.

Molly glanced around the silent, empty restaurant, trying to gather her thoughts. She was aware that Mycroft was watching her intently, and when she turned back to him, he didn't try to hide the fact. In fact, he continued to observe her silently, his hands folded together under his chin.

She tried to laugh, but her mouth felt dry and she choked over it. "And now _you're_ staring at _me_!" she managed to splutter.

He smiled and poured some water into one of her glasses (she appeared to have four on the table, all different sizes). "I do apologise. I was somewhat curious, I must admit."

Sipping gratefully, she waited for him to expand on this, but instead, he turned his own attention to the wine, pouring some out for her first and then for himself. "It's from a good year. I usually send over my own wines when I dine here. I'm rather fussy, I'm afraid." He lifted his glass towards her in an ironic fashion before sipping at it delicately.

She lifted her own and took a fairly big gulp. Molly wasn't a massive fan of red wine, but she felt she needed some now.

"Why am I here, Mr Holmes? I mean – I'm sorry, that sounded a bit rude, but…" She flushed a little. "It's not as if you've paid any attention to me in the past."

He raised an eyebrow. "Indeed not. And perhaps that was my mistake, Miss Hooper. It would seem that, where my brother is concerned, I have a tendency to underestimate the importance of certain individuals. Mr Moriarty was _certainly_ a factor that I did not account for."

There was an air of regret in his voice, and he looked away for a minute. It was a rather nice voice, cultured and smooth, but also gentle – far gentler than his brother's. She wondered how often, and in what circumstances, he would raise his voice. Sherlock's baritone was like a melody, as expressive and as musical as the man himself with its constant 'rise and fall' – not unlike the tide of a stormy sea. But Mycroft… Mycroft's voice was a quiet summer's day. It seemed to trickle over her like a stream over rocks, utterly assured, and the very assurance reassured her.

At this thought, she grimaced at the wine; had she drank too much already? When had she started conjuring up such bizarre and ridiculous analogies?

As she put down her glass, determined not to drink too much, her starter arrived. She had guessed it would be soup, but was pleasantly surprised at the delicate flavour.

Mycroft occupied himself with a pate, spreading it liberally over a slice of crusty bread. He leaned back in his chair and ate the bread with every sign of enjoyment. Her spoon stilled as she watched him, somewhat surprised.

He caught her attention and waved a hand, casually. "Please don't mind me, Miss Hooper. I attend far too many state banquets, you know, and ambassadorial dinners… at which the purpose is _not _to eat, or so it would appear. One has to follow so many rules… When I dine in my favourite restaurant, I like to _eat_. Despite what my brother may think, I do not spend my day eating cream cakes. And I do like food…perhaps a little too much at times." He glanced down at his stomach.

"Is that why you clear the restaurant?" she asked, meaningfully. In the back of her mind, she noted the present tense being used in relation to Sherlock.

He looked up at her and then around the silent room. "Ah… you mean this?" He smiled. "Ironically, Miss Hooper, you are benefitting from a happy set of circumstances. I did _not_ 'clear' the restaurant for our meal, as it happens. In fact, it had been closed for a private dinner being hosted by the Foreign Office for a group of Chinese delegates – at _their _request. It seems that they wished to escape the Embassy for an evening to experience some North London colour…but their security guards were a little zealous as to the degree of 'colour' to be experienced. However, and rather unfortunately, while taking a tour of the Palace Guard this afternoon, one of the gentlemen fell and sprained his ankle. Hence an empty restaurant." He smiled at her. "I was _more_ than happy to take the opportunity for a private chat in more salubrious circumstances than usual. I'm sure that Dr Watson will tell you that he was not always so lucky."

"A private chat - with _me_?"

"With - as you say - _you_. How is the soup?"

"It's lovely." She turned her attention back to it, reflecting on the manner in which he kept deflecting the conversation. Clearly he would get to what he really wanted to say in his own time.

She felt oddly at ease and dug into her soup with more enthusiasm, as he began to engage her in casual talk. He was a good conversationalist – part of his training, she assumed – being able to turn the discussion to those topics that most interested her, while appearing to share her interest. She learned that he, like her, was not particularly knowledgeable about or interested in music, unlike his younger brother. He enjoyed art, which had been one of her favourite subjects at school, and they spent some time comparing artists and talking about a couple of exhibitions that they had both seen recently. He was very well-read, as she could have guessed, with a wide knowledge of classical literature, but also confessed to a liking for Tom Clancy novels, much to her delight. Moving onto to films, they discovered a shared guilty pleasure for old horror B movies, and he was able to recommend one or two that she hadn't seen yet.

At the time, she felt flattered by his interest, if a little surprised that they had so much in common. Later, in retrospect, she realised that it had probably all been an act, designed to put her at her ease, along with his informal table manners. A man like Mycroft would probably be clever enough to immerse himself in the interests of others to such a degree that he could pass himself off as a fellow aficionado. As hard as she tried, she couldn't imagine him _really_ sitting down to a Tom Clancy novel at the end of a hard day of charming diplomats, or tuning in to a Vincent Price late-night movie with a bowl of popcorn. The image just seemed _wrong_. But at the time, she was charmed enough to believe him.

Their discussions took them through the starters and then the main course, which she discovered was a melt-in-the-mouth butternut squash risotto. After she politely refused the dessert menu, feeling too full to give it justice, he ordered coffee and a selection of cheeses and then fell silent until their drinks and the cheese platter arrived.

Her nerves returned as she sensed the conversation was about to turn to the topic that was presumably of most interest to him. For a moment, he didn't seem to notice her, being busy cutting a slice of blue cheese, which he then placed very precisely in the middle of his plate. He retained the knife, using it to cut the slice into tiny cubes.

"You assisted my brother in the act of faking his death."

It was not a question, more of a flat statement. His voice sounded flat too, as he stared fixedly at his plate. He continued methodically chopping at the cheese, the dull thud echoing the loud beating of her heart in her ears.

"So…you _knew_? All this time?"

He looked up at her, his face emotionless. The earlier animation had left it, and she wondered, uneasily, whether this was the _real_ Mycroft.

"I, of course, knew from the start that Sherlock had not killed himself. He would not have been so…_stupid_. Also, we had made contingencies for such an occurrence, although it would seem that events rather got away from him. Nevertheless, my brother has his own contacts. He did not use _mine_, not to stage the death, at least." Was it her imagination, or was there just a hint of bitterness in that smooth tone?

"Then, you know how…?"

"Of course. I can deduce." His eyes were very definitely steel-grey as he observed her. "To achieve such an effect, he would have needed an inside person. Someone who was intensely loyal to him, yes, but also someone who would be too easily discounted. _I _discounted you, Miss Hooper. Just like James Moriarty, I underestimated you."

She tried to make sense of this. "So, Sherlock didn't - ."

"No, Sherlock did not tell me of your involvement. Even now, he makes no mention of you – oh, yes, I have seen him, on several occasions over the last three years. He seems to obtain a certain pleasure from dropping in on me at the most inopportune moments." His mouth twisted into a rueful smile. "It _was_ a little hard to explain to the Indian Prime Minister why there was a tramp asleep in my private office… And, of course, he has been to visit you. But no, he did not mention your role. I suspect he was unsure exactly how far Moriarty's web had spread. And he certainly doesn't trust my people, much less _me_." His mouth turned downward and he looked back at his plate of cheese. "It _is_ rather a shame, as he _did_ trust me once…but that is in the past."

By now, the cheese was a pile of crumbs. He contemplated it for a moment before placing the cheese knife on the platter with exaggerated care. Pushing his plate away untouched, he leaned back in his chair and assumed his earlier pose, fingers steepled under his chin as he looked at her gravely.

"No, I was not told of your role. I merely…surmised. Tell me, Miss Hooper, has my brother ever thanked you for saving his life?"

"Well…" She felt uncomfortable under his intense scrutiny and took a gulp of coffee to steady her nerves. "He knows he doesn't need to."

"Of _course _he hasn't." He sighed, gently. "I _would_ offer my own gratitude, and that of my parents – who _also_ know of his survival, by the way – but I suspect it would mean very little to you."

His attention shifted abruptly; his eyes moving to a corner of the empty restaurant so suddenly that she followed his gaze, expecting to see something or someone there. They were alone, though, and she suspected that he was so lost in thought that he didn't really know what he was looking at.

As the silence deepened, she shifted awkwardly, wondering whether to break it. She didn't imagine that he'd arranged this elaborate dinner merely to inform her that he knew she was an accomplice. No, there was more to come.

Just as she was beginning to get really uncomfortable, he sighed and ran his hand over his forehead, suddenly looking rather old. She had more of a sense of what Sherlock had meant when he mentioned his brother – there _was_ something timeless about Mycroft. He might have belonged to an earlier age, with his old-fashioned suits and manner of speech, more suited to a man some twenty years his senior.

"He needs to return to London."

She jumped as the silence was broken. "I don't know where he is."

He looked at her very deliberately. "There have been…developments. It is time for Sherlock to stop playing his little _games_." The disdain in his voice was clear.

"Games, you call them?" She forgot her apprehension in her indignation. "Have you _any idea_ what he's going through? The injuries -."

"I have a _fair _idea." His voice was icy – how had she ever felt reassured by it? "Yes, I _do_ call them games. Sherlock could have ended this a very long time ago, if he'd been prepared to work with my officers."

"Perhaps he wants to finish this himself?" she suggested. "After all, Moriarty's attack was personal, and…"

The look on his face told her what he thought of this theory. "It's far more likely that he still doesn't trust me." He sighed again and shook his head, like a disapproving father. "Sherlock has always derived a certain pleasure from thwarting my plans."

"If you're suggesting that he _enjoys_ playing dead – that he can possibly be _happy_ knowing that John still thinks he is dead..."

"Are you certain that he does _not_?" His eyes were grave as he looked at her. "Consider the facts, Miss Hooper. You knew my brother before he met John. He was used to working alone, was he not?"

"Well, yes, but -."

"And you are about to say that he was much happier when John came along. Yes, you are right, he _was_… And that is my point. _Was_ happier. But Sherlock has been working alone for the last three years. Tell me, when was the last time you heard him mention John Watson?"

She opened her mouth to object, but then closed it again as she gave this some thought. In the early months after his 'fall', whenever Sherlock visited her, sooner or later the conversation would turn to John. He wouldn't ask after John _directly_ – he was never that obvious about it. It was more a case of casual enquiries – had she been to Baker Street recently, had she seen anything of Mrs Hudson, had there been any interesting cases at the morgue recently? Always very carefully skirting around the topic. She'd tried to answer to the best of her ability, but the truth was that she'd kept her distance from John, initially out of guilt and more recently because they had simply grown apart. She'd heard, during a chance meeting with Mrs Hudson, that John had left Baker Street not long after Sherlock's funeral, and got the impression that the old lady was rather hurt that he hadn't kept in touch with her, but she didn't like to pass this on to Sherlock.

While Sherlock was away on his long absence during the second year, she had heard from Greg that John had, in fact, moved in with his girlfriend, who seemed a little more serious than the previous ones. She had meant to tell Sherlock, but the opportunity never seemed to arise. When she finally saw him again, he'd shown less interest in any of his old friends. His visits had been sporadic, they had been shorter, sometimes just a few hours, and he had seemed quieter and a little more self-absorbed.

Looking up at Mycroft, she saw his eyes soften in understanding. "_Exactly_. My brother has never been _good _at working alone – by which, I mean that he is of course eminently successful. Ruthlessly efficient. Deadly, even, as no doubt many of Moriarty's associates have discovered. However, working alone does not make him a _good_ man… Dr Watson had a power for good over him," he added, reflectively. "I could see that from moment they met. He had an ability to make Sherlock think about the consequences; to second-guess himself, if you like. John probably never knew that he had much influence over Sherlock, but it _was _there. It was not obvious to anyone who did not know where to look."

He paused. "It was for that reason – and for that reason _alone_ – that I allowed Dr Watson to continue in his association with my brother. If I had had any suspicion _at all_ that his influence was less than benign, he would have been removed immediately."

Although his voice was as quiet and measured as before, she suddenly had no doubt at all that Mycroft would have carried out his threat. She shuddered before she could stop herself, and he caught the movement and raised his eyebrow.

"Not as you may think. There are other ways to achieve an objective, and I am not an unnecessarily violent man, no matter how people may perceive me. It was merely that Dr Watson would have found himself with an offer of employment that he couldn't easily refuse. A war medicine consultancy post in the United States with an extremely generous remuneration package might have suited."

"He wouldn't have accepted it. He would _never_ have left Sherlock."

She didn't know why she felt so fiercely protective of John all of a sudden… _or _where her confidence in his dogged loyalty to Sherlock came from. However, to her surprise, Mycroft nodded, in an approving manner.

"I strongly suspect you are right… Nevertheless, whether Sherlock likes it or not, his undercover days are _over_. They _have_ to be…for the sake of this country." The last words were muttered, and she wondered if he had intended her to hear them.

She gave him a steady look. "I _still_ don't know where he is."

His gaze was equally calm. "I believe you, Miss Hooper." He stood suddenly, to indicate that dinner was over, and she drained her cup of excellent coffee and rose. "Fortunately, I do know where he is…." He sighed, sounding exhausted. "Retrieving him will involve a certain degree of infiltration, which is always so…tedious. However, needs must."

"So…if you _knew_ where he was, all along…then, why all _this_?" She indicated the table, with its empty plates and glasses. "Why did you bring me here?"

He gave her a brisk smile. "Two reasons. Firstly, I wanted to prepare you for the fact that Sherlock _will _be back soon. Not _just_ back, but 'risen from the dead'. When _exactly _I cannot say with any certainty, but it will be within the next three months. I thought it only right that you should know, as there will be questions asked."

"The autopsy…" She hadn't really thought of that. Her name was down as a key witness; she'd signed a form declaring the body to be that of Sherlock Holmes.

He waved a hand. "Don't worry, that's all in hand. I will make sure that your career doesn't suffer by association."

"Thank you…. What was the second reason?" she added, curiously.

His face was oddly blank as he looked at her. "I must admit to a desire to meet the individual that will become extremely important to my younger brother."

She laughed awkwardly, her face heating. "That's absurd! The whole point of Sherlock using me to help him was that Jim _wouldn't _realise! I didn't 'count' – I _never_ counted – not to _Sherlock_."

He walked her to the door in a courteous manner. The ever-silent man reappeared to escort her back to the waiting car.

Just as she turned back in the open doorway to thank him for dinner, he added. "You misunderstood me, Miss Hooper. I did not say that you _did_ count. I said that you _will _count."

She frowned and opened her mouth to ask him what he meant by that, but he simply nodded to her and turned away, the door closing behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Usual disclaimers apply – all characters belong to ACD and Moffatt, Gatiss and Thompson. I acknowledge Ariane DeVere's transcript of The Empty Hearse for some words towards the end of this chapter.**

* * *

**Chapter 7**

For several days after her surreal encounter with the mysterious Mycroft Holmes, Molly was on constant tenterhooks, fancying that she could spot covert surveillance of her activities on each and every street corner.

Was it her imagination or was that security camera _really_ swivelling towards her? Was that man walking parallel on the other side of the road actually a spy for a secret government organisation instead of the innocuous city worker that he appeared to be? It was deeply unsettling to realise that, far from being completely overlooked, she had _always_ been on Mycroft's radar. And, if on _his_ radar, then on who else's?

Of course, Sherlock had reassured her that she was in no danger whatsoever – Jim was long gone and she could mean nothing to any of his associates…but still she was uneasy.

She also half expected Mycroft to contact her again – after all, he must have had a _reason_ for telling her that he knew Sherlock had survived and that the consulting detective was needed back in London. She wondered whether, despite his words, he didn't entirely believe that she had no idea where Sherlock was. Would he drag her into some underground cell and interrogate her? She wouldn't put it past a man like that – he looked urbane and civilised on the surface, but she was under no illusions as to the nature of the work that he was involved in and the tough decisions he might be forced to make for the sake of Queen and Country.

Why _had_ he contacted her? It was not as if she could have told him anything that he didn't already know. He'd made that cryptic comment – that, one day, she _would_ 'count' to Sherlock – but she had no idea what he had meant.

As the days and weeks passed and it became clearer that Mycroft was not about to abduct her again, her sense of security returned…and with it, an odd sense of disappointment and restlessness. She'd found the encounter strangely invigorating – an interlude in an otherwise fairly mundane life. It was mundane by choice to some degree; she felt a dogged loyalty to Sherlock that prevented her from seeking a more interesting lifestyle. While a certain Consulting Detective was still at large and could turn up at any time, it probably wasn't all that sensible to make any changes. Best to stick to her familiar routine of work in the laboratory and quiet evenings at home…which, to be honest, was not all that much fun.

For a start, she was getting bored with her job. Her supervisor had recently suggested that she might like to consider going into medical training to qualify as a pathologist. In his view, she had the necessary knowledge and aptitude to qualify, and Mike Stamford agreed with him. It was a very big decision to make, though. It would involve five years of full-time medical education to become a doctor before specialising in pathology. Also, she didn't think she'd very much enjoy the mandatory clinical practice – it was an old joke among the mortuary staff, but she genuinely _did_ prefer corpses to living patients and had no vocation for a healing role. The costs would be high, although her mother had promised to help out – and since Molly was the sole beneficiary of her parents' not-inconsiderable fortune, money wasn't really an issue. But still…she hesitated. What if Sherlock ever needed the Bart's laboratory and she was no longer working there…?

It wasn't just the job, either. Before Sherlock's 'death', she had become increasingly aware of her single status and the fact that she wasn't getting any younger. She had given some thought to changing the situation, but with limited success. It was likely that her obsession with Sherlock (and possibility her traumatic experience with 'Jim from IT') had stopped her from fully committing to anyone who showed any interest.

Since Sherlock's disappearance, it'd seemed too risky to involve anyone in her personal life…which was pretty frustrating when she had finally – _finally_! – found someone who might just be perfect.

His name was Tom and he worked as an editor for one of the large medical publishers. She'd met him at a party given by one of her old school friends – someone who had studied medicine but had abandoned the profession early on to work in medical publishing simply because, as she'd put it to Molly, the hours weren't quite so excruciatingly long and the money was actually better.

At the party, Molly had found herself chatting to a tall, good-looking man who seemed oddly familiar. She'd spent the first half of the evening wondering where they'd met before, but by the end, she didn't care – he was charming and sweet and had, rather shyly, asked her if she would have lunch with him. She'd accepted, a little cautiously. The 'date' had been a success. It turned out that Tom had a dog, a little springer spaniel, and they'd had lunch in a little café in Highgate before walking on Hampstead Heath. Molly didn't mind dogs even though she slightly preferred cats for their independence, so it had been a pleasant day out.

That had been eight months' ago, and since then, she had carefully resisted his diffident attempts to move their relationship beyond platonic friendship. She'd met some of his friends on casual nights out at the pub and then he'd invited her to dinner with his mum and dad and younger sisters, and that seemed innocent enough. She'd been careful not to invite him to her flat, apart from fleeting visits to pick her up. What he made of this, she wasn't sure. She had always assumed that, at some point, he would get tired of pursuing her, but he never did.

It was frustrating because Tom was, well – _perfect_. Handsome, with warm eyes that crinkled attractively whenever he laughed, which was often, as he was also good-humoured. She always enjoyed herself in his company. In large groups, he could be shy, but he had a dry sense of humour and made her laugh. Despite his shyness, he was a popular man, with a large group of friends that she got on well with. He was kind and gentle too – seeming to understand the nature of her role better than most, and he was tolerant of the awkward working hours. And, on the occasions when she'd gone over to his flat for a meal, she'd enjoyed the novelty of coming home to find a meal already on the table. There was something _warming_ about Tom - no great spark there, but over the years, Molly had grown realistic about finding The One and had resigned herself to the fact that 'great sparks' probably didn't exist and that love would grow through familiarity. At least, she hoped so.

There was no denying the fact that he was ideal…and sometimes, she almost found herself hating Sherlock for putting her in this position. Hating him…but still loving him, even if only as a platonic friend. She felt guilty for feeling resentful, but she couldn't help it. Why shouldn't Molly Hooper put herself first, just for a change?

And now Mycroft was saying that Sherlock would be coming back. Soon, he'd said, within three months – and he'd be publicly resurrected. So there was no longer a need for secrecy, and no longer any reason for keeping Tom at bay…

So, one day, as if it were the most natural action in the world, she picked up her mobile and selected the number in her speed-dial.

"Tom? Yes, it's Molly. Hi… Er…I was wondering about that dinner you mentioned…?"

* * *

It wasn't the three months that Mycroft had predicted; it wasn't even four. It was nearly five months' later that Sherlock walked back into her life.

She'd just finished another boring shift, updating the paperwork. Tom was waiting at home (_their _home now), having promised to cook her favourite meal – lasagne – and she was happily anticipating a peaceful evening in front of the TV.

She walked into the staff room and unlocked her locker. As the door swung back, she automatically looked into the mirror…and a face appeared right behind her.

She gasped, her hand rising to her chest in shock. Even knowing he was still alive, knowing he would return one day… Somehow she had come to believe that it would _never_ happen, that it was all just a dream and perhaps the world was right and he really was dead, even though logic told her it couldn't be true…

She turned to look at him, a smile slowly spreading over her face. He looked…well, rather as he had used to – as if the last three years had never happened. Certainly, he looked much better than the last time they had met, when he was dressed like a tramp and bearded with shaggy over-long hair and dirty fingernails. Now he was clean-shaven and designer-smart once more… but the little tells were there if one knew him well enough.

He was thinner than before, if that were possible, but at the same time had the lean, tough physique of a man who had had to exert himself physically in rough conditions over a long period of time. He looked older – Sherlock had always been blessed with boyish looks, which was miraculous considering his wild behaviour in early adulthood – but now she could spot additional lines around his eyes and mouth. He now looked more authentically like a man in his thirties – in fact, a man who had aged from early to late thirties during his time away.

One thing hadn't changed – his self-assurance. If there were changes in him, he hid them well behind a mask of slight amusement at having given her a shock.

His eyes flashed up and down her in his usual mercurial way and he opened his mouth, but before he could make any deductions, she flung herself at him like a speeding train.

"_Sherlock_!" She wrapped her arms around his neck, ignoring the muffled 'oomph'. "You're back!"

"Well, obviously." His words were muffled by her hair. His body had stiffened at her sudden assault, presumably in shock. In all the time they had known each other, she'd never dared hug him and he'd certainly never initiated anything of the sort. At most, he'd swung her around by her arms out of sheer excitement, but those occasions had almost certainly been accidental. Sherlock just didn't 'do' physical gestures.

Despite his evident discomfort, he didn't attempt to extricate himself. He didn't exactly return the embrace, but one of his hands came up to pat a little awkwardly at her back. Her eyes closed briefly, as she automatically inhaled the scent of expensive linen and aftershave.

Something occurred to her suddenly, and she broke the embrace, looking up at him. "You _are_ back, aren't you? Officially, I mean? It – it's _over_?"

He looked at her, his eyes a little shadowed. "It's _never_ 'over', Molly. You know that. But, if you mean am I officially 'risen from the dead'," he made an ironically dramatic gesture, "then _yes_. Or I will be by tomorrow, anyway."

She felt a breath of sheer relief flow out of her body. "Thank God. Mycroft said you had to come back, but I wasn't sure -."

She was pulled up short by the expression of pure fury in his face at the mention of his brother. He half-stepped away from her, rubbing his chin in a nervous gesture that was new to him. "He always has to interfere. It's written in his DNA. Don't tell me -," he looked back at her. "Was it the garage? No… The club? No, no, he'd hardly take you there -."

"It was a restaurant," she interrupted, impatiently. "But where _were_ you for so long? He said he'd have to – what was it? – _infiltrate_." The word sounded rather thrilling to her; she had visions of James Bond scenarios – although admittedly Mycroft didn't look very much like 007.

Sherlock sighed in a put-upon manner. "He's such a _drama queen_. If he'd wanted to pull me out _that _quickly, he could've put sent one of his double agents in and got me out immediately – God knows he's turned enough of them. It was hardly necessary for him to do the job himself. Personally, I think he just enjoys being back in the field occasionally...and he certainly enjoyed himself this time. Too much, in fact." A muscle in his cheek twitched slightly. "I think I will have to thank him _personally_ – a large chocolate gateaux delivered directly to his office should do it." He smirked evilly. "Mycroft never could resist gateaux. As a child, he frequently ate far too much and ended up being sick."

She could tell he was deflecting her question, and gave her own sigh, one of acknowledged defeat. "I'm _never _going to know where you've been – am I?" she asked, with a rueful smile.

He gave her an equally acknowledging smile. "Probably not."

She shrugged. "Oh well. I don't suppose I'd understand half of it anyway. But," she hesitated, giving him an uncertain look, "_his_ network…Moriarty...?"

He nodded, the expression in his eyes softening. "You won't have any trouble. I promise. It's over."

She relaxed. It had always weighed a little on her mind that, if one of Moriarty's associates ever discovered her role in Sherlock's survival, they would come after her.

"So…well, I guess I'll get the full story from John at some point," she suggested, casually. The little flare of jealousy surprised her. She had stopped resenting John's presence years ago. True, she hadn't seen much of him in the last three years, but that had been partly guilt on her part and partly the fact that John had made himself scarce. She still met up with Greg occasionally and, on one occasion, John had joined them for drinks. The doctor had seemed quieter than he used to be – he had looked older and had lacked the spark of energy that she remembered, although he still retained his wry sense of humour.

The mysterious Mary Morstan had dominated his conversation and he had steadfastly refused to reminisce about Sherlock, as Greg and Molly were wont to do whenever they got together. Molly hadn't met Mary Morstan yet, although Greg had met her briefly and had described her as 'nice'. Also, Molly had yet to introduce Tom to Greg, John and Mrs Hudson – it wasn't from a sense of reluctance on her part, it was simply lack of opportunity. In a way, Sherlock had always been the glue that held the small, disparate band of people together and without him, there didn't seem much for them to say to one another.

She forced a cheerful smile. "If you're going to tell anyone, it'd be him."

He nodded briskly, but there was something a little lost - almost vulnerable - in his expression. "Possibly. Anyway, must go." He clapped his hands together, and there was the old Sherlock she remembered. "I have things to do and people to see, and you have…" He broke off and his eyes flickered over her quickly and with extra intensity. She tried to avoid clutching automatically at the ring, currently hanging from a chain beneath her top. Could he tell? _How_?

"…you have…things," he continued, rather weakly. He stepped back and gave her a dramatic wink before turning and striding towards the door.

"It's good to see you again, Molly Hooper!" he called over his shoulder, as the door swung closed behind him.

She leaned against her locker door and fingered her engagement ring through the fabric.

* * *

It had been the oddest of days.

Molly had been on her way to her flat, on one of her rare days off. She had a list of jobs to do, starting with checking the progress of the decorators who were repainting her flat, preparatory to letting it out. It didn't help that it was a brutally cold day - part of her had wanted to linger in the warmth of Tom's house, watching crappy TV with her feet up, but it was not in Molly's nature to sit around when there were jobs to do.

Then the text came:

**Need to see you. Come to Baker Street immediately. SH.**

Her heart started thumping faster in a way that hadn't happened for years. She cursed silently under her breath – _stupid, stupid_! She thought she had this under control by now...

She glanced at her watch, considering. Tom was in meetings all day, no way of contacting him, and even if there _was_, what could she say? "Oh, I might be late for dinner tonight, because I'm just dropping everything to go and see the man I used to be in love with. I suppose there's a chance he might be asking me out to dinner"?

Her phone beeped again:

**It's important. SH.**

She muttered angrily under her breath and got up as the bus pulled into Belsize Park station.

* * *

The domestic cases had been amusing. She began to perceive why Sherlock was so frequently rude to his clients. What a bunch of - of idiots they seemed! She remembered John moaning about his behaviour from time to time, but then ever-practical John was usually thinking about the money that Sherlock made out of his private work - money that helped pay the bills and buy the shopping - whereas she could sit back and enjoy without having to worry about the consequences.

The mocked-up crime scene had been…odd. It had been interesting to participate in John's place and she could see why John had been happy to follow Sherlock on his cases in the past. But Sherlock was oddly polite to her. She didn't think he usually treated John that way on crime scenes, so why her? Why so accommodating and so…_awkward_ around her? His odd behaviour seemed to be confirmed by Greg's confused reaction. And then there was the fact that he kept referring to 'John'. She had become used to that in the past, when he'd occasionally addressed her as John in the laboratory, but this just seemed to reinforce the oddness. Why wasn't John present, when Sherlock so clearly wanted him to be?

He hadn't said an awful lot about what had happened when he met John. This morning, he'd simply said that John was too busy with other responsibilities these days and that he'd appreciate her help with some cases. Since she'd very clearly not been of any help at all, not even as a sounding board, she couldn't really understand his motives.

Then there had been oddball Howard and his Tube footage with the mysteriously disappearing man, which had, against all the odds, been interesting. And Sherlock, suddenly very much himself again, muttering about journeys and maps, and giving her disapproving looks when she didn't immediately work out his deductions. And then, that odd offer of some chips…

"Sherlock?" she called, as he went down the stairs from Howard's flat. "What was today about?" She had to know.

He looked up at her, as she walked down the stairs, his face inscrutable. "Saying thank you."

She frowned, confused. In all these years…even after the fall, he hadn't ever thanked her. Not in so many words, anyway, and she hadn't expected him to. "For what?"

"Everything you did for me."

"It's OK. It was my pleasure," she replied, automatically, the words sounding stilted, as she passed him and headed for the door.

"No, I mean it."

There was something in his voice that made her turn, look up at him. Something somehow…genuine. Regretful even.

She felt herself blushing and stammering in her old manner. "I – I don't mean 'pleasure'. I mean, I didn't mind." She looked up at him intently, trying to convey her sincerity through her eyes. He needed to understand. This wasn't about a silly crush or about hopes of gratitude leading to something more. She'd grown up since then. "I wanted to," she added, softly.

He stepped closer, his own eyes intent. At one time, that _would_ have made her heart beat faster, but there was something 'open' in his expression. She sensed that, for once, Sherlock Holmes was _not _playing a game and that she might in fact be looking at the man and not the mask.

His voice was very gentle when he spoke. "Moriarty slipped up. He made a mistake. Because the one person he thought didn't matter at _all_ to me…was the one person that mattered the _most_. You made it all possible." He took a deep breath, and moved even closer. "But you can't do this again…can you?"

She smiled up at him, trying to swallow the lump forming in her throat. "I had a lovely day. I'd love to… I just – um…" There was something very knowing in his eyes – something both knowing and tender - that made her look away quickly, for fear that she would cry. She looked down at the ring on her finger, trying to anchor her emotions before she made an utter fool of herself.

"Congratulations, by the way."

She looked up at him, quickly. His eyes were on the sparkling diamond and there was a small, slightly ironic, smile on his face. An acknowledgement, perhaps, that she was no longer that silly little girl that had walked into his life six years ago...and that he could no longer flirt and play with her emotions to get his way.

"He's not from work," she said, quickly, suddenly wanting to get it over. "We met through friends – the old-fashioned way. He's nice. We…he's got a dog… we go to the pub on weekends and he…" She smiled. "I've met his mum and dad and his friends and all his family… I've _no_ idea why I'm telling you this."

She looked up at him again, pleading with him to understand. There was a gentle smile on his face. At that moment, his expression looked open and kind and almost heartbreakingly vulnerable.

"I hope you'll be very happy, Molly Hooper. You deserve it." After a pause, he added, with typical Sherlock flippancy, "After all, not _all_ the men you fall for can turn out to be sociopaths."

"No?" she asked, a little weakly. Which man was he referring too? 'Sociopaths' suggested he meant himself and not Moriarty. In a way, that was a relief, as she hated being associated with that man. In quite another, it was alarming, as it suggested he was acknowledging the unspoken truth – that she was, almost certainly, still in love with him.

"No," he replied, firmly, calmly. His face lit up in the most beautiful smile, just about guaranteed to break her resolve and then he leaned in and kissed her on the cheek – briefly, firmly, as if to underline something. Closing her eyes, she savoured the gentle press of his lips, inhaling that familiar and beloved Sherlock scent of clean linen and subtle aftershave, with an underlying hint of the chemicals he worked with.

With her eyes still closed, she felt him move away from her, felt the sting of cold air as he opened the door on a frigid day. She opened her eyes and watched his retreating back.

"Maybe it's just my type," she whispered to herself and shivered slightly.

It was snowing as she followed him out of the door and paused to pull on her gloves. At the pavement, she watched for a moment as he walked off along the road. She didn't call out to him or attempt to follow him. In the gentlest of ways, he had closed a door firmly behind him; had given her the courage she needed to move on… and now she needed to let him be. It was kind of him – kinder than she deserved, possibly.

She sighed, and turned to walk away from him, in the opposite direction.


	8. Chapter 8

**Well, this is a world record for me! The truth is, I had included certain elements of this into the last chapter, but it didn't seem to work and made the overall thing a bit long. So…here it is. This is obviously very Molly and Tom-centric, with no apologies whatsoever to any Tom-haters among you. He's a lovely guy really, and it's not his fault that he's got caught up in Molly's delusions, bless her.**

**Actually, the more I think of it, with Moffatt and Gatiss's love of sneaky little clues here and there, and with Sherlock's shocked reaction when he saw Tom, the more I wonder whether there isn't something a little sinister going on with the character! It might be that Sherlock really **_**is**_** just shocked to realise that Molly has, essentially, bagged herself a domestic version of himself, but then again there may be more to it than that! Who knows…roll on S4! Anyway, in my version, he really **_**is**_** as nice as he seems.**

**Usual disclaimers apply.**

* * *

**Chapter 8**

The city's brief flirtation with snow in November had, inevitably, brought London transport to a standstill. It didn't bode well for the winter lying ahead of them if tubes and trains and buses were going to be halted this early on by a few wintery flurries.

As she walked slowly up the hill, having given up on the bus, Molly reflected on the fact that she'd really moved up in the world – both literally and figuratively.

Tom lived on Highgate Hill, actually not all that far from her flat. In the bedroom on the top floor, she could just about make out her block of flats. It was a stylish but somehow still cosy old-fashioned house, and he'd bought it five years previously, courtesy of a large legacy from his grandmother. The first time Molly had visited, she hadn't quite believed that anyone could really live that way. Were there Londoners who _really _lived in a little cobbled street, lined with trees and old-fashioned street lamps, like something out of a 1950s children's novel? It was a gated community too, and Molly still felt a bit odd about passing through the security gate.

She nodded uncomfortably at the guard on duty as she displayed her card. This guard was particularly nice too; he always gave her a conspiratorial smile, as if they both shared the secret that she didn't really belong there…which only served to make her feel worse.

Once she'd passed through, she always felt immediately better. The community was peaceful – a complete contrast to the bustle of London – and the residents were generally nice. There were ten houses on either side of the road, occupied by individuals and families of various ages, and a communal park and children's play area at the far end. The little park was well laid out, and there were benches looking over a panoramic view of the Heath; as Tom's private garden was relatively small, they spent a fair amount of time there. All in all, it was rather like having your own patch of countryside in the middle of the city.

This late afternoon in November, it looked particularly beautiful, silent in the softly falling snow. By morning, the snow would have turned to dirty slush, but right now, the scene was magical, like something out of a fairy tale.

She'd only been living here for a month. The last five months had been something of a helter-skelter ride for Molly. Once she'd decided to take their relationship to the next level, there didn't seem much point in holding back. They spent almost all their spare time together. She was 32 and Tom 37, and he made it clear that he was more than ready to settle down. Although they hadn't discussed it yet, she was sure that he wouldn't object to starting a family within the next couple of years. The idea of becoming a mother made her a little uneasy, but he seemed to sense that and didn't push the issue.

Within a few short weeks, they were talking about moving in together. It was unusual for Molly to be so impetuous and in fact she suspected that her mother was a bit concerned by her out-of-character behaviour, but it was as if, having made a decision to _finally_ move on from Sherlock, she felt a need to catch up on all that she had missed out on so far. She _enjoyed_ being with Tom – he was attractive, an attentive and gentle lover, funny, kind… She wouldn't go so far as to say she was _in_ love with him quite yet, but she did _love_ him more and more each day…and it would come. She was sure of that.

She finally came to a decision when he went away on a 5-day business trip and she found herself missing him acutely. When he returned, she was ready to give him her answer…and not just to moving in with him. The addition of a solitaire diamond ring seemed quite surreal, and she still found herself twisting it around her finger as if to reassure herself that it wasn't just a dream.

It made far more sense for Molly to move to Tom's house; apart from all the other advantages, her little flat wasn't suitable for a dog. She was reluctant to give up it entirely, though. Tom understood that perfectly – he had helped her move her possessions to his house and then had set about helping to redecorate and refurbish the flat to make it ready for letting out.

Molly glanced up at the classical 3-storey house as she put her key in the door. The first time she'd been here, she'd been rendered speechless. Tom didn't seem to be the type to live in such splendour; he was such a modest, quiet young man. Initially, she had expected, at most, a slightly larger flat to her own. However, it turned out that Tom's mother had had quite a hand in choosing his property. She was a formidable woman – Molly liked her and the feeling was clearly mutual, but she was also wealthy and cultured and had an eye for the stylish and (usually) expensive. When it came to buying his first and so far only property, her mild-mannered son had acquiesced with her recommendations.

Inside, however, he'd put his own stamp on the place. Tom was a country boy at heart, brought up in rural Buckinghamshire, and instead of the swish, minimalist décor that she had feared, the rooms were warm and welcoming, with wooden furniture, comfy sofas and scattered cushions. There were bookcases everywhere, as Tom was a prolific reader, and the lounge boasted a state-of-the-art entertainment system, which he made relatively little use of but obviously felt he ought to have. There was an open fire in the lounge that Tom would probably have lit on this cold evening. All in all, Molly had felt instantly at home once she'd passed through the front door. It appealed to her desire to live in the country one day – she could visualise herself as an older woman inhabiting these rooms.

The kitchen was her favourite part of the house. It dominated the back of the ground floor, with large French doors opening out onto a small terrace. Tom was an excellent cook and loved pottering about, experimenting with recipes. After a long day at work, she would often curl up in a little rocking chair by the French doors and watch him at work at the Aga stove. The kitchen would be bathed in early evening sunshine, and she would cradle a mug of coffee and relax.

As she stepped in the house, the welcoming warmth greeted her and a delicious aroma made her nose twitch. She took off her gloves, hung up her coat and bag and walked through into the kitchen.

As usual, she was greeted first by Rosie, the lively young spaniel bounding across the room, her stumpy little tail wagging excitedly.

Tom was at the large table in the centre of the kitchen, making a salad dressing. "Hi, darling!"

"Hi." She stood on tiptoe to give him a brief kiss and then leaned over the table, breathing in the aroma of a rosemary-scented loaf of bread, still warm from the oven. "That smells lovely. Just what I need after the day I've had."

She walked across the room to pour herself a small glass of red wine from the bottle already open. Tilting the bottle in his direction, she gave him an enquiring look, but he shook his head, busy with his salad.

She took her glass and walked over to the French doors, looking out at the small walled garden. Toby, who was lying on a cushion in the rocking chair, looked up at her before stretching himself luxuriantly and deigning to wander over for a quick stroke. Rosie trotted past him on her way back to her usual begging position by Tom's legs; he favoured her with a superior glance before continuing his stately walk. Insofar as she could tell with the inscrutable large cat, he seemed reasonably happy with the sudden change in his circumstances.

She bent to tickle his soft head. "Hey, Tobes. How're you doing, boy?"

He arched his back, purring gently. As she stroked him, she looked up at the garden again. It wasn't much more than a terrace really, mostly laid to paving stones, although there was a small patch of grass, much favoured by Rosie. Tom hadn't made much of it, not being a keen gardener. Molly had never been all that interested either, but she could see the potential of this little space. A bench along one side to catch the late afternoon sun, a few big stone pots with some shrubs, a honeysuckle arch, some hanging baskets with trailing plants… She straightened up, the cat forgotten, and frowned at the garden under its snowy blanket, trying to visualise her plan. It might be worth asking Mum for help…

Bristling a little at being ignored, Toby stalked off to terrorise Rosie. Molly turned around to see Tom looking at her a little quizzically.

"You're later back than I thought you'd be."

"Yes… Did I hold up dinner?" she asked, suddenly concerned that she might have put him out.

He smiled. "No – your timing is perfect. I just thought… How was the flat? They're not putting the carpets in until Thursday, are they?"

"No… Actually, I didn't get to the flat after all."

"Oh?"

"No. I… It's a little hard to explain."

The truth was, she didn't really know what to tell him.

The day Sherlock had walked back into her life, she'd lingered at work, having been more unsettled by the encounter than she had expected. She'd walked out into the street outside Bart's and looked up at the infamous roof top for some time, trying to imagine how it must have looked to John on that fateful day. There were a few of the usual people milling around to look at the scene – even after three years, there were a few diehard Sherlock fans, conspiracy theorists mostly. They'd paid no attention to the little, mousey-haired woman staring intently at the roof as if it held the answer to all her questions.

From there, she'd wandered into that little laboratory where Sherlock had asked her to help him, and sat down on a stool, staring unseeingly at the table for a long time.

She'd felt odd and unsettled since then, and then Sherlock had gone and compounded that with the bizarre adventure of today. What had he said? Something like: "welcome to my world". She sensed that today had been more than just a simple 'thank you'; it had also been a lesson – a warning. A very clear: 'if you get involved with me, this is just how chaotic your life would become'.

Even the chips. An offer of chips when he almost certainly knew from the quality of her ring that she could comfortably expect a much better dinner.

Now, she turned away from Tom's concerned gaze and looked at the garden again.

Had it really been three years? And yet, so much had changed in her life since then… And Sherlock? Where had he been, what had he had to do? The years hadn't been easy on him physically; she could see that. What about the psychological impact? Had he been alone the entire time, apart from his brief visits to her, or had someone else helped him? For some reason, she had a sudden, unsettling vision of a pale, perfect body and gleaming black hair and delicate hands with scarlet nails….

She thought over the times that he had turned up at her flat. He'd been fairly quiet during those periods, as if he desperately needed to rest his mind and body, and she hadn't pushed him. To some extent, he had used her place like a hotel – just somewhere to sleep and wash and even eat. He'd practically inhaled piles of toast and mugs of tea before collapsing onto her sofa and sleeping for hours. Sometimes she'd go off to work and find him gone when she returned; on other occasions, he would slip out when she was asleep.

He'd never leave a note to say where'd he'd gone, he'd never say "thank you" or ask if it was OK… But then, she'd never expected him to – it was unspoken between them that he was always welcome and he never needed to ask or say thanks. "What you need," she'd offered, and she'd never gone back on that promise.

The question was…how could she ever explain that promise to Tom? Would he understand why she had helped Sherlock? Would he…would he read more into her feelings?

There was another option, she mused. Tom didn't know anything of her role, and there was no real reason for that to change. Sherlock would never let her secret out if she asked him. And yet…

And _yet_. Sherlock was such a big part of her life – still was. Tom needed to understand that. She couldn't hide her friendship and, in any case, it was a big lie to live with. How would he feel if John or somebody let something slip later on?

She turned and looked back at him. He'd taken a lamb casserole out of the oven and was serving it into two bowls, a little frown of concentration on his face that crinkled his nose. She smiled at the sight, a warm sensation in her stomach. He was a good man, she was so lucky really…

He looked up at her, raising an eyebrow. "So? Are you going to tell me what's wrong?" His voice was good-humoured, but she could sense the worry.

She made up her mind. "Yes, but… do you mind if we have dinner first? What I have to tell you…it's going to be difficult to explain…"

* * *

After dinner, they had sat, side by side on the large leather sofa in front of the roaring log fire, with mugs of coffee that went cold as she talked…and talked.

She told him about her first meeting with Sherlock, about the work she'd done for him over the years, about John Watson and Mrs Hudson, and about Greg Lestrade and the Yarders. She tried to convey the brilliance of the man – Tom knew, of course, about Sherlock in an abstract way, but she sought to explain why it was that he could draw people to him and why he could inspire such loyalty. She touched briefly on her crush on him – it was inevitable that that would come into the story – but she tried to play down her current feelings and make them sound more like the love of a sister for a particularly errant brother. As she talked, it seemed plausible even to _her_ – the unrequited feelings she had for the consulting detective seeming nothing more than mere immaturity in comparison with the solidity and sheer _rightness_ of her relationship with the man sitting next to her.

Then she came to the really difficult part – the fall and her role in Sherlock's survival. Tom had seen the papers and the TV news on the exonerated detective's miraculous return from the dead. Now he sat quietly as she explained exactly how the fall had been rigged and her part in ensuring that John and the entire world had been fooled by Sherlock's deception.

She looked nervously at his face as she described it. This was the part that she had feared most – how would Tom react to knowing that she had spent most of the night tracking down Sherlock's doppelganger, who had been murdered by Moriarty now he was no longer of use, and making him up to look like the consulting detective? How would he feel about the fact that she had deliberately falsified a death certificate, knowing full well that a victim of Moriarty's schemes was going to be buried under Sherlock's name? His expression was merely interested, though – curious and a little surprised, but not actively shocked by her story.

She then moved on to the years after the fall – Sherlock's occasional visits, which were the reason why she'd kept Tom at a distance for so long, and even the encounter with Mycroft where she learned that Sherlock would return, although she left out much of that conversation. And, finally, his return and the bizarre day she had just spent with him – although again, she didn't go into details about their parting words.

Finally finishing, she sank back into the welcome support of the sofa and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. When there was no immediate response, she opened her eyes and looked over at her fiancé.

Tom had stretched out his long legs, propping them on a foot stall. His hands were folded over his stomach and he was staring into the flames.

"So…?" she asked, tentatively.

"So?" he repeated, not looking at her.

"Well, I wondered… what do you think?"

"I'm not sure I _do_ at the moment. Just trying to absorb it," he replied in his usual slow, deliberate manner. It was one of the myriad ways in which he was quite decidedly _not _Sherlock; in fact, one of the chief characteristics that she loved in him simply because it _was_ so unlike Sherlock. Sometimes it was just _so_ restful not to be deduced at machine-gun speed.

He sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. "I mean…it's a lot to take in. First of all the papers say this man is innocent, and then it turns out that he didn't die…and now you tell me that you were involved in that. What about this man Moriarty?"

She flushed. "That was a big mistake. I didn't see him more than a few times. He just wanted a way to get to Sherlock…and I guess I was lonely enough to believe he might be interested in me."

She could feel herself squirming with embarrassment. She'd never really got over the humiliation of knowing that her lonely state had been abused by Moriarty just as a way of getting in contact with Sherlock. It was just as bad as those lonely middle-aged women who were duped by young foreign men into sending money abroad.

He squeezed her arm gently. "I can understand that. I joined a dating agency once."

"You did?" She found it hard to believe that someone as good-looking as Tom had ever struggled to find love.

He shrugged. "Well, you know me. I don't like parties or clubbing. Just a dog walk and a pint at a pub will do. And I never know what to say to people."

She smiled. "_We've_ never had any problems."

"That's the weird thing." He sounded thoughtful. "It was almost as if you'd met me before somewhere. You seemed completely at ease, right from the start."

She frowned at that. "I don't _think_ I remembered meeting you before."

"Well, anyway." He slipped his hand up her arm and put it around her shoulders to give her a comforting squeeze. "I'm glad you told me all this."

"You are? You don't mind – the falsification and covering up for him, and all that?"

"Well…I can't say I'm thrilled by all of it. This Sherlock – he doesn't seem to mind putting his friends in the way of trouble, does he? I mean, did he even think what might have happened to you if Moriarty's friends had found out? That being said -," he added, firmly, as she opened her mouth to protest, "- I trust your judgement. You obviously made the decision that was right for you at that time."

"I did," she told him, equally firmly. "There was no other course of action for me. If I hadn't helped him, I couldn't have lived with myself."

He kissed her head, pulling her closer into his side. "You must have been terrified."

That made her pause. _Yes_, in theory, she _must_ have been. So much could have gone wrong, there were so many variables, and then her role could have so easily been uncovered. And yet, she didn't remember much fear at the time. Concern for Sherlock, yes, sorrow for John, certainly. But, if anything, she'd found the whole situation quite exciting. In comparison, her usual life seemed dull.

Something stopped her from telling Tom that, though. "Yes, I guess so."

There was a pause, during which no sound could be heard but the crackle of the fire.

"I'm proud of you," he said, suddenly. "I don't know that I understand all that happened, but I know it can't have been easy… and to keep it all secret…"

"I'm sorry about that. If I could have told you…" She leaned her head on his shoulder, not wanting to meet his eyes.

"But you couldn't. I understand that. One thing, though -," he lifted her head with his other hand and gave her a pleading look, "- no more secrets?"

She smiled at him, reassuringly. "None."

"And…you won't go off with this Sherlock again, will you? Not like that -," he added, hastily, "- I only meant that if he wants you to do something dangerous again, you will say 'no', won't you?"

It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that it would depend on the situation, but she relented as she saw the anxiety in his eyes. She had to remind herself that Tom was nothing like Sherlock – he wasn't used to danger and violent crime. What seemed normal to her, thanks to her exposure to Sherlock and Greg, was probably quite disturbing to a man who'd lived a quiet, well-ordered life.

She kissed him gently before getting up. "I'll make some fresh coffee. And no, I promise I won't get into any trouble again."

He smiled up at her. "So, when do I get to meet these people?"

* * *

Everyone was perfectly pleasant to Tom when they finally met him, although Molly couldn't quite understand why they all seemed to stare so much, with the exception of Mary Morstan, who really was as nice as Greg had said. John in particular hadn't seemed able take his eyes off Tom, and as for Sherlock, he'd done a double-take the moment he'd laid eyes on her fiancé. Tom took all this in his stride and had soon endeared himself to Mrs Hudson.

Even Greg had seemed a little odd about it, quietly asking Molly if she was serious about Tom, although he'd seemed satisfied that she was by the end of the visit.

Much later, in bed, Tom lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. "Would you say," he commented in his slow manner, "that Sherlock looks a little like me?"

She frowned, confused. "I hadn't really noticed it."

"Oh well." He shrugged, sleepy and not seeming all that bothered.

A sudden rush of affection came over her, and she turned towards him, nuzzling into his shoulder.

"I love the way you're always here."

"Where else would I be?" His tired voice sounded confused in the darkness.

"No – I mean…" She wasn't sure how to put it. "I love that I can – that I know you'll always _be _here. Not necessarily _here_, in this house, but…"

He put his arms around her and pulled her into his chest, and she felt reassured by his warmth. Solid, secure, reliable. _Safe_.


	9. Chapter 9

**Thank you for your lovely reviews! I'm glad you're enjoying Molly's POV.**

**Usual disclaimer - all belongs to ACD/Moffatt/Gatiss/Thompson**

* * *

Chapter 9

"And _then _he says…" Greg paused for dramatic effect, "'didn't go to any _trouble_, did you?'"

Molly put her hand over her mouth to cover her mirth, but it was just impossible. The laughter burst out of her, making her snort in an unladylike manner.

"And there was I, having to call off three police cars, an ambulance, a fire engine and a bloody police _helicopter_," Greg concluded, and thumped the table in exasperation. "Try explaining _that _one to the Chief Super. And soddin' _Jones_ got all the credit for bringing in the Waters' lot. Eighteen bloody months of work on the case…"

She howled with laughter, tears streaming down her face at the image.

"_Hey_! It wasn't _funny_," Greg protested, but there was a rueful grin on his face. He whacked Molly's back hard as her hysteria threatened to make her choke.

"_Ow_!" She managed to get her breath under control and wiped her eyes. "That _hurt_."

"Sorry," he said, without any compunction whatsoever.

"_I'm_ sorry too." She rifled in her bag for a tissue to blow her nose. "I know you had high hopes for that arrest."

"Yeah, well…" He looked moodily at the cracked and peeling table.

She felt sorry for Lestrade; he hid his worries behind a tough exterior, but it was true that he'd been under a bit of a cloud since Sherlock's supposed death. The Chief Superintendent hadn't been too pleased to hear how reliant Greg had been on someone who was essentially an unpaid amateur, no matter how brilliant his deductions might be. While Sherlock's reputation was still in tatters, Greg had had to step extremely carefully to avoid being considered for demotion. Even after his friend's name had been cleared, the DI's own reputation had remained tarnished simply by association.

Since Sherlock's return, she and Greg had grown a little closer again. For a while, during Sherlock's absence, she'd avoided meeting Greg for all but the occasional quick drink, feeling guilty about keeping him in the dark. However, when the consulting detective returned and she guiltily confessed her role, Greg had taken it in his stride. After all, as he'd pointed out, he'd had quite enough shocks that week, so nothing else would surprise him. And at least Sherlock was back.

She'd been fairly impressed by the way he'd taken it all in his stride, especially in comparison with John. Understandable, of course, and at least the doctor had forgiven his friend now…

Thinking of Sherlock and John, she tried to cheer Greg up. "Of course, they're out on their 'bar crawl' tonight. Did I tell you about that?"

His face reflected his confusion. "_Sherlock_? _Bar crawl_?"

"Yes." She giggled. "He's doing a tour of pubs associated with notorious murder scenes."

He shook his head, disbelievingly. "In _London_? How long's this pub crawl going on for? _Days_?"

"_Aha_, but that's the other thing." She grinned at the memory. "He got me to work out the ideal intake of alcohol for the two of them. Medical records, the works. Just enough to keep them happy without getting _really _out of control."

"Yeah? That's a laugh." Lestrade took another swig of his beer and grimaced. "Don't think I've ever _seen_ Sherlock drink. Bet he can't take much without getting pissed. It's not his _usual_ recreational drug of choice, is it?"

She sobered immediately. "That's true... Do – do you think he ever used while he was away?"

He shrugged, his face troubled. "Who knows? Once an addict… But he seems to have it under control, doesn't he?"

"I think so… I don't really know. I suppose Mycroft keeps an eye on him..?" she ventured, cautiously.

"Yeah but his over-controlling older brother didn't stop him _before_, not when he was a skinny kid, and I saw him…" He broke off quickly, picking up his glass.

Greg had never told Molly about his early encounters with Sherlock during his cocaine-using days, and she'd never liked to ask for details. Partly because she understood why Greg would want to keep Sherlock's secrets, and partly because, having seen enough bodies raddled by drugs, she didn't think she could bear to know.

"Oh well, what're the odds I'll be springing them out of the lockup in the morning?" Greg grunted, with just the hint of a smirk. "_That_ could be fun." He drained his pint glass and got up. "Time for another?"

"Yes, why not?" She pushed her empty glass in his direction.

He looked down at her, enquiringly. "Another pint?" When she nodded, he shrugged his shoulders and picked up her glass. "I'm the last to judge," he muttered as he walked to the bar.

When he returned, bearing two full pints and a packet of crisps, she asked him, curiously, "What did you _mean_ by that? Just now? That it wasn't for you to judge – _what_?"

He took a gulp of his pint and then put it down and gave her a wry look. "Just that. I'm not one to judge how much someone drinks. Christ knows I put away enough of it myself."

She frowned. "You think I drink too much?"

He looked reflectively in his glass. "For _you_? Yeah. For someone else, like the average DI after a tough case, probably not. I mean, you're not getting roaring drunk every night and you're probably not sinking enough to ruin your liver, but…what's changed, Molly? Time was, your entire evening's allowance was one small glass of wine chased up with a Diet Coke."

She thought about it for a few minutes. "I hadn't noticed," she told him, honestly.

He grimaced. "People don't. _Trust_ me. It creeps up on you, and next thing you know, you're out drinking every night." He opened the crisps and her nostrils were assaulted by the disgustingly greasy and yet enticing aroma of cheese and onion. Her stomach groaned, but she shook her head as he offered the bag. There were only a few days to go, and she wanted to be able to fit in that dress.

He grinned at her. "You'll look great. And it _will_ fit."

She let out a shuddering sigh. "How did you _know_ what I was thinking? Worse than Sherlock, you are."

He snorted. "Nah. Not in his league. I just know _you_." He pointed at her a little wildly; he was on his fourth pint and beginning to get unsteady, which was usually his cue to call it a night. "Which is why I _know_ that there's something going on. For a start, why are you sitting here in this shitty bar listening to a washed-up old copper moaning into his drink, when you could be at home sipping cocktails with that bloke you're gonna marry? And that's another thing – you set a date yet?"

She sipped her beer to try to avoid an immediate answer.

"Molly? What's wrong?"

"I…don't know." She sighed, pushing her glass away. "Nothing really."

"You've been engaged longer than the couple whose wedding we're going to be drinking at in a few days," he pointed out. "And no dates set, no plans. What gives? You getting restless? Or is it him?"

She didn't answer directly. "He's a lovely man. It should be perfect. I don't know."

He reached out, putting one of his large calloused hand over hers. "Molly? Take it from one who knows. If you're not completely sure, then _don't do it_. It's not worth the pain when it all goes to hell."

She looked up at him; suddenly he seemed very sober for a man on his fourth pint. "You're OK now, though?"

He sighed, running his spare hand through his grey hair. "Am I? Look at me, middle-aged and single, living in a grotty little flat. No one to go home to, staying out all hours, drinking in pubs. The ex wants to try again and – God help me – I'm so lonely, I might even put myself through it all once more. The cheating and the lies – turning a blind eye to all the crap." He looked at Molly through red-rimmed eyes. "All I can think is _maybe_ it's better than what I've got now. What a fucking mess."

"_Greg_! It can't be as bad as all that?" She turned her hand under his to grasp his fingers.

"I dunno." He gave her a wry smile. "It's Sherlock, innit? Ruins it for everyone."

"You blame _him_ for your wife's behaviour?"

He was silent for a moment. "Not really…though it didn't help that back in the day when we were first married, I was getting called out by that brother of his at all hours because the stupid bastard was off his head in some squat. It wasn't the only problem but…let's just say it didn't help. And then I made the mistake of taking him in for a while when he was homeless and trying to run away from Mycroft." He gave a humourless laugh. "Wife didn't like _that_ much. He was clean by then, which only made it worse – first thing he did was deduce her. She's hated him ever since."

She was silent for a moment. "I'm sorry."

He grunted. "Ah well, forget it. And now _you_."

"Sherlock has nothing to do with me and Tom," she said, defensively.

"_Doesn't_ he?" He gave her meaningful look before leaning back in his seat and picking up his glass. "Oh well. Here's to the one couple that might _not_ get their relationship screwed over by Sherlock Holmes. John and Mary."

"John and Mary," she echoed, raising her glass to him before downing nearly half a pint in one gulp.

* * *

It had crept up on her gradually – so slowly that she hadn't really noticed for a long time.

Her life had taken on a certain routine. Regular dinners with Tom's family. Sunday lunch at the pub and a walk with the dog. The occasional weekend away, usually to some picturesque spot in Buckinghamshire.

And that was…fine. It was lovely, and Tom was as sweet and affectionate as ever, and his family and friends couldn't be nicer or more welcoming, and Toby was settled in his new home, and…

…And she was _bored_.

She knew exactly what she'd be doing each day; there were no surprises, no sudden adrenaline rushes. She'd promised Tom that she wouldn't get involved in any more of Sherlock's cases, but as it turned out, she didn't really have the opportunity; Sherlock had kept his distance in recent months. He'd text ahead if he wanted body parts and would take them away with him rather than invade her laboratory or hack into her computer. There were no more lazy afternoons in the laboratory, with Sherlock carrying out his bizarre experiments while she and John watched and chatted.

Tom understood her job and appreciated its importance, but showed no real interest in the minutiae. Well, perhaps that was a little unfair. He was always happy to listen to her descriptions of unusual cases, but he lacked the automatic understanding that Sherlock, John and even, to some extent, Greg had. She'd frequently have to explain in detail why something had struck her as funny, and she had to bite her tongue to avoid getting irritated when he didn't immediately 'get it'. He found her sense of humour a little macabre.

Equally, she found him hard to understand at times. He was a well-read man, with a particular love for Irish poetry and literature that left her cold. Molly wasn't one for extensive reading; if she had to read for pleasure, she preferred a light novel or an autobiography. At first, when he whimsically quoted some text in response to a beautiful view or in reply to one of her comments, it was a charming novelty, but she began to grow irritated when she couldn't really see the connection. He made her feel unintellectual and even boorish at times, and the worst of it was that she knew he didn't really _mean_ to… Somehow, it chafed far more than it ever had when a certain consulting detective had derided her intelligence. At least Sherlock knew the impact he was having – at least it was, in some way, deliberate. Ridiculous though it might be, his casual cruelty was preferable to Tom's innocent and well-meaning behaviour.

She supposed it was rather like growing pains – something that every couple had to go through in their relationship. Unpleasant but necessary. After all, she _had_ rather jumped into the engagement and the whole excitement of moving in together. And no couple was ever _perfectly_ matched. It was just that…they were less alike than she had realised at first.

Lestrade's advice had unsettled her a little, but she comforted herself with the fact that Tom would never cheat on her. He was still quite clearly besotted with her, but even if he hadn't been, he was far too much of a gentleman. And as for her cheating on him…well, even if she was inclined to be that cruel, it would never happen. She reassured herself that she had never felt the slightest temptation to stray from Tom. Only one person might have captured her attention, and _he'd_ made it more than clear that he was not interested in _any _relationship, let alone one with her.

So…she should put her doubts behind her and move on.

And she went on believing that until the following Saturday.

* * *

The yellow dress fit perfectly. She wasn't altogether sure about the hairpiece, but it _did_ go with the dress. Tom looked handsome in the blue-grey suit that brought out his eyes, and she was certain that most of the other women there were eyeing her enviously (and probably wondering what he was doing with someone quite so obviously ordinary as Molly Hooper, no doubt). Even Greg was looking unusually smart, and Mrs Hudson was magnificent in a wide-brimmed hat.

And then, _he _appeared.

If they'd picked the colours to match him rather than John, they couldn't have done a better job. He looked _perfect_ in shades of grey and pale gold, with his dramatic colouring only enhanced by the lilac buttonhole. From her position during the ceremony, she couldn't see much of him, but when they stepped outside and she saw him properly, her heart dropped right into her silly little strappy sandals.

And she knew then, at that moment, that she was still in love with him. And that there would _never_ be anyone else for her. Not Tom, not _anyone_.

Anguished, she watched the Watsons posing for their wedding photos, saw the sheer happiness in John's face, the glow in Mary's…and knew that that special moment would _never_ happen to her. She would never be that glowing, happy bride, not as long as her obsession with the tall, unsmiling man standing beside the new husband and wife continued. For Sherlock would never marry, she knew that. And even if he did, it would _never_ be to _her_.

He was stepping forward for his own photos now. Mary was nudging John and they were laughing in a conspiratorial fashion about something…and it wasn't hard to see what. The elegant, pretty chief bridesmaid stood next to him and seemed to be flirting with him, judging by the little smile on her face. Molly watched avidly for the expected brush-off - waited for the woman to blush or glare or even slap Sherlock's face - but instead her smile deepened as he spoke to her and she slipped her hand through his arm. Sherlock looked a little startled, but made no attempt to remove it.

They made an attractive couple – both tall, both good-looking in a striking way, with their dramatic colouring. And they were in complimentary colours, of course… and the subtle sheen of the bridesmaid's lilac gown suddenly made Molly's bright and cheerful yellow seem tawdry and cheap despite the high price tag.

She felt a slight pressure at her side from Greg's arm. Looking straight ahead, he murmured, too quietly for anyone else to hear: "You look _fine_."

Her smile was more than a little shaky. "Not in _her_ league."

He snorted. "Nah. Too obvious. He'll give her the brush off soon enough… Although…" He shifted a little and she could sense the fresh surprise in his voice. "Well, _that's_ a first."

She could sense a murmur of speculation around her as the best man and bridesmaid continued to chat amicably even after the photographs had been taken. Sherlock had already attracted a certain degree of attention – those who knew him wondered at John's decision to make him best man, while those who did not had heard the rumours and were curious. John looked surprised and Mary amused by the turn of events.

Molly discovered, by chatting casually to other guests, that no one appeared to know the chief bridesmaid, who was called Janine, all that well. Even her fellow bridesmaids didn't seem all that certain of her, although all agreed that she was a lovely woman - charming, intelligent, funny and warm-hearted, in a typically Irish manner. To be fair, she didn't cling to Sherlock all day, as one might have expected her to, but it was clear that there was a certain frisson between the two. Sherlock occasionally sought her out and seemed to converse silently with her from time to time. Once, she saw him nodding vigorously towards one of the male guests, and Janine's face lit up, as if she understood what information he was conveying.

Molly was pleased to find that she and Tom had been placed close to the front, and even more pleased to have Greg sitting next to her. As they took their seats, he leaned towards her and murmured "still worried about the speech?" She had to cough hurriedly into her serviette. Judging by the little titter of amusement from Mrs Hudson on the other side of Greg, she had also overheard.

And, at first, it looked as if her fears had been well-founded. Sherlock was probably the _worst_ best man that John could have chosen…until, quite suddenly, he was almost certainly the _best_. She felt her eyes stinging with hot tears that threatened to smudge her mascara as he turned to John and promised to never let him down. As she grabbed a serviette to dab them away, she was aware that Greg was also trying to control his emotions and Mrs H wasn't even trying.

And then on to the so-called 'funny' stories, which actually turned out to be quite interesting, particularly when Sherlock launched into a full and enthusiastic description of the stabbed guardsman. She had to hide a smile at the horrified looks on some of the guests' faces – well, _honestly_, what did John's friends expect when they'd made the decision to attend John's wedding? Mary's friends could be forgiven for being shocked by the subject matter.

And then Sherlock had to go and turn it into a Q&amp;A, which of course gave him the ideal opportunity to deride the guests for their stupidity. Tom, who'd been rapt by the story so far, started whispering his theory enthusiastically to Molly and, much to her horror, Sherlock called him out on it. She cringed, fearing the worst. Now was the opportunity, if there ever was one, for Sherlock to unleash the full force of his deductive powers on her fiancé.

Much to her surprise and relief, Sherlock didn't take the opportunity, even though the look on his face made it fairly obvious what he thought of Tom's half-arsed theory of suicide. Even with the lucky escape, she prickled with humiliation, hissing at Tom to sit down.

And then there was the mysterious incident, when best man, bridegroom and bride all disappeared, and later on, an arrest was made. How typical – she might have guessed that any wedding involving John Watson and/or Sherlock Holmes would end up more like something out of a thriller.

And then it was all rather sweet again – Sherlock playing the waltz he had composed for the couple and making his rather lovely little speech, which seemed to cause a little consternation for all three of them.

Her eyes stayed fixed on them even as she danced half-heartedly to the disco, and she saw the warm smile that John shared with Sherlock before he swung his new wife away. And then she saw how Sherlock stood, frozen among the gyrating bodies, his smile suddenly fixed and his eyes anxious as he looked around, as if seeking something…or someone.

And she still watched as the lonely figure walked slowly out of the room. It took all her strength of will not to walk after him.

* * *

"That's all the boxes from the car."

Greg came into the room behind her as she stood staring at the small pull-out sofabed in his spare room.

"I'm sorry – it's not much," he added, awkwardly. "I never really got around to buying any furniture for it. It's just lucky that I had the spare sofa and the old wardrobe -."

"No – _please_ don't worry, it's fine." She fixed a smile on her face as she looked around at him.

His face gave away his anxiety as he put the last cardboard box down next to the rest of her belongings. "Is this all? It doesn't seem much."

She eyed her possessions – two suitcases of clothes and a few boxes of books, ornaments, cushions and the like. "Well, most of our stuff was _his_, really. I didn't have much of my own. There's some furniture in the flat, of course…"

"Yeah, well." He looked a little awkward. "I'll leave you to unpack – I'll just go and put the kettle on."

"Greg –," she stopped him with a hand on his arm. "I never got a chance to say thank you. I'm grateful – really. It's just for a few weeks. Once the tenancy is up and the flat is free again, I'll get out of your hair."

His face softened as he put his hand over hers. "You stay as long as you need. I can help with anything you need to do at the flat."

"It should already be in very good condition. Before we put the tenants in, Tom had it redecorated beautifully…"

Her voice faded away and she felt the sharp sting of tears at the thought of dear, kind Tom...

"Oh, Molly…" Greg peered at her face and then put his arms around her, without any preamble.

She hadn't cried at all. Not when she'd told Tom that it was over; when, after the initial shock, he'd been so _sweet_ about it – far kinder than she deserved. Not when he'd offered to look after Toby until she was able to move back into her old flat. Not even when she'd hugged him goodbye this morning, knowing that it might be some time before either of them could bear to set eyes on one another again…

She sobbed into Greg's shoulder, knowing that she was soaking his shirt, but not able to do a _thing_ about it.

"It should have worked - ," she gasped, between sobs. "That's what's so...bloody _stupid_ about it. I _wanted_ it to work – I _did_. I didn't want - ."

Greg hushed her, stroking her back soothingly. He felt warm, safe… even fatherly. For a moment, she missed her own dead father so acutely it _hurt_.

"I didn't want – _this_." She stepped back, indicating herself helplessly. "This _stupid_, _pointless _love for someone who can_ never_ _ever_ love me back." She shook her head. "I don't – I could never _blame_ him. I know he can't help it – it's just not _in_ him to feel that way about anyone, let alone me. I just… All I wanted was a _normal_ life. I wanted to be _loved_. Is that so _wrong_? Why can't I just _love_ and _be_ loved like – like Mary Watson? Why _me_?"

Greg's face was troubled, but he said nothing as he pulled her into another comforting hug.

* * *

**I'm sorry, this fic is not very cheerful at the moment - but then TSOT and HLV weren't particularly happy for Molly, were they? More angst to come in the next chapter...**


	10. Chapter 10

**One note: you clever reviewers might spot an issue with Molly's training. I am taking liberties here; as far as I know, it's not possible to become a forensic pathologist in the UK without a medical degree (it's different with other pathology routes, where you can come into the profession from a purely scientific background). I do know that, but I can't see Molly going through the five years' training and the grueling clinical placements, so I'm stretching the definitions a little here! It's interesting that she IS apparently a pathologist in the show; I can only assume that it's Sherlock that turns her into a frightened rabbit. She sure wouldn't have survived her stint as a junior doctor in A&amp;E otherwise!**

**Disclaimer: All is property of ACD/Moffatt/Gatiss/Thompson and the BBC. I also acknowledge Ariane DeVere's transcript of His Last Vow for some of the dialogue.**

* * *

Chapter 10

It was good to be back in the flat again. She could finally admit to herself that she'd been completely out of her depth in Tom's well-appointed house, comfortable though it might have been. It felt _right_ to come home to familiar surroundings; to be alone, with just aloof Toby for company. To have _control_ over her own life once more.

Also, although it had been comforting to have Greg's presence at first, she soon began to feel like a nuisance, however nice he was about it. His flat was small, the second bedroom little more than a box room, and they couldn't escape each other very easily. And the morning negotiations over the bathroom were intensely embarrassing. Greg was great as a friend and a drinking partner, but there were some aspects of his life that she _really_ didn't need to see.

Plus, there was the fact that he seemed to be tiptoeing around her very carefully. All her friends seemed to be doing that. She quickly grew fed up with the sympathetic looks from colleagues. It was funny how separation was treated almost like a bereavement – the same averted eyes and little grimaces of sorrow. As if she no longer had anything to live for.

At first, it _was _true – she didn't seem to know what to do with herself. She felt terrible for Tom, who was a lovely man and really hadn'tdeserved to be treated as some kind of second-rate substitute. And she missed him too. She missed his wry humour and quiet ways; she found herself wanting to walk on the Heath on Sunday afternoons and drink in old-fashioned pubs. In particularly she yearned for those moments of peace curled up in the rocking chair in the kitchen, clutching a glass of wine and watching him create wonderful meals. It hadn't _all_ been bad, even at the end.

But - very gradually - she began to emerge from a self-imposed shadow of guilt and loneliness. She began to make an effort to go out again – meeting a couple of old school friends for lunch and resuming her Friday night pint with Greg. She also went to see Mike Stamford to discuss the previously-mooted possibility of retraining as a pathologist. The friendly doctor had suggested that she might be more suited to a science route rather than a medical one, and had suggested that she consider studying part-time for a postgraduate degree in biochemistry. She rang her mum to discuss the costs and began to work out which modules she might be able to skip.

She even met Mary Watson on one occasion. It was by chance while getting a takeaway coffee from a Costa's near Bart's. Mary invited Molly to join her while she waited for John to return from visiting one of his practice patients, who had been admitted to a cancer ward at the hospital. She cheerfully admitted that it was partly so she could get a good whiff of Molly's Espresso, and gestured at her own peppermint tea with rueful good humour. Molly looked at the cup and then at Mary's paler-than-usual face, and then rather diffidently congratulated her on her pregnancy.

She found Mary easy-going and pleasant to talk to. Although they had met on several occasions before the wedding, it had always been in company. She had received an impression of a lively, fun-loving woman who wasn't particularly 'girly' – the sort of woman who generally got on better with men than other women. But then Molly herself was rather similar and she sensed a kindred spirit in Mary. She also noticed that Mary didn't rub in the fact that she was pregnant or keep harping on about it, unlike some of Molly's old friends, who seemed to be currently popping out baby after baby. Whether this was because she was sensitive to Molly's recent break-up or because it didn't occur to her to be particularly excited by the prospect of impending motherhood, Molly couldn't tell.

When John arrived, he seemed pleased to see Molly and invited her to come around to their flat for dinner soon. She watched the two of them a little enviously, as Mary teased him about having to move out to the suburbs soon, to a good school catchment area with plenty of parks. Their mutual affection was obvious and they had a way of finishing each other's sentences with a familiarity that seemed to speak of many years of intimacy, even though she knew they'd only been together for a couple of years. She tried – and failed – to imagine her relationship with Tom evolving to such a state…and felt grateful that she'd got out in time. Greg had been right all along.

Even so, looking at John, she sensed that something wasn't quite right with him. He looked pale, his jaw a little tense. And judging by Mary's expression when he wasn't looking in her direction, she was also worried, although she was clearly trying to hide it.

Neither of them mentioned Sherlock, and she didn't quite have the nerve to ask whether they had seen him recently. She had a strange sense that the topic wouldn't be welcome.

She wondered whether John had known that Sherlock had left the wedding early. Had he minded? That seemed a little petty for him. Was it guilt, then? She remembered that warm, secretive smile that John and Sherlock had shared…and reflected that there really _was_ some kind of bond between them. She had no doubt that the two men loved each other, albeit it was a platonic love - a _brotherly_ love; the kind of love that Sherlock would never have for his biological sibling.

So, why then was there this restraint in John? And why did she feel unable to mention the name of the man who had, just a few short weeks ago, vowed to protect his best friend and his wife no matter what?

* * *

When John rang that morning, he had sounded tense, talking in short and stilted sentences that indicated he was trying to rein in his temper. At first, she thought she'd offended him in some way, but the moment he mentioned Sherlock, she _knew_.

It didn't help that she was feeling tired and cranky after a long night shift and had been looking forward to a cup of tea and a comfortable bed. She looked at Sherlock first as the oddly-assembled group came in, and for once she felt no sense of pleasure or excitement. One look at his glazed, red-rimmed eyes and pale, pasty face told her all she needed to know. Judging by John's similar reaction, the urinalysis was a mere formality.

John paced as she ran the test on the sample reluctantly provided by Sherlock. She glanced up at him in disbelief as she waited for the result to come through. He was leaning against the lab table, looking as sulky as she had ever seen him. Dressed in stained joggers and a hoody, with unwashed hair hanging in lank curls over his face, he stank of stale alcohol and cigarette smoke and God knew what else. Her nose wrinkled in disgust and she looked away again, _hating _the fact that she had to see him in such a state. What on earth could have happened to cause _this_?

John continued to pace, his face white and strained – for that alone, she wished she _had_ insisted on subjecting Sherlock to the humiliation of a saliva sample. She felt her ire rise at the sight of the doctor's distress. How _dare _Sherlock be so cruel to the people who loved him most? She didn't even mind for herself, but…

The computer beeped and she narrowed her eyes, checking the reading as she snapped off her gloves.

John stopped, looking at her. "Well? Is he clean?"

"_Clean_?" She wanted to laugh hysterically. Looking at Sherlock again, she saw him looking at her keenly. He _knew_! He knew _perfectly well_ what the result was…and he didn't even bloody _care_.

Before she knew what she was doing, she had walked over to Sherlock…and slapped him hard across the face – and again – and once more. She tried to channel all her disappointment and anger and hurt through her hand. He blinked, shaking his head slightly and seeming a little surprised by the assault, although he didn't attempt to protect himself.

She glared at him, not attempting to hide her contempt. How could she _trust _such a man? How could she possibly _love_ someone like that? Her words, when they came, were bitter: "How _dare _you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with?"

She glanced at John, taking in his expression of betrayal and pain before turning her attention back to his friend. "And how _dare_ you betray the love of your friends? _Say you're sorry_!" _And mean it_, she wanted to add, but really, what was the point? Did Sherlock ever mean _anything_? It was all just a game to him. A minor entertainment, while he and his snooty brother got on with their ridiculous power play.

He winced, rubbing his cheekbone. "I'm sorry your engagement's over…though I'm fairly grateful for the lack of a ring…"

He didn't sound in the least regretful. Not that she expected him to give a toss… The old pre-Fall Sherlock was starting to assert himself again. All that consideration for her feelings, all those nice things he'd said to John and Mary…were they all just lies?

"Stop it," she hissed, furiously. "Just…_stop it_!" _Stop deducing me, you arrogant arse, _she wanted to say._ I'm done with you. Forever this time._

She wanted to turn her back on him and walk right out of the laboratory, but something made her linger. Sherlock wasn't behaving _entirely_ like someone who was coming down from a heroin fix – but then, of course, he _was _a former addict and therefore must have built some tolerance to the effects. Only Sherlock Holmes could seem even _sharper_ than usual under the influence of illegal drugs. In any case, he was _damn_ lucky that it was still early in the morning and that none of the pathologists had arrived yet. Anyone else would have reported the results to the police – or dropped a hint in Greg's ear, at least. She already knew that she was going to wipe the evidence from the computer. Not that it'd do him much good if his brother had got wind of the lapse – and from what she recalled of Mycroft, he probably already had.

Her curiosity about the situation intensified with Sherlock's odd reaction to the news that his drug habit was about to hit the tabloids. Who in their right mind would want their professional career to be blighted with scandal? She watched bemusedly as he walked out of the laboratory, a broad smile on his face.

* * *

The phone was ringing. Molly groaned and tried to bury her face in the pillow. It should go to answerphone any minute…

It did, but then started ringing again, immediately. She reached out, grabbed the receiver and snapped, "Whoever you are, this had _better_ be good."

"Molly?" John's voice sounded odd.

Her heart sank. "Oh, _God_, John – I don't mean to be rude, but I've just come off another night and I really don't -."

"I know – I'm sorry." There was something a little choked in John's voice – a tone she hadn't heard before. "It's just, I couldn't leave a message, because… Sherlock -."

She sighed. "_Please_, John, don't involve me anymore. I know he's got a problem, but I can't -."

"_No_. No, it isn't _that_." He let out a shuddering sigh and she frowned, beginning to gather her thoughts. He really did sound a little odd, especially as he carried on: "I'm sorry, Molly, but I've been up all night and my head's all over the place… I can't seem to think straight, and I can't think of any easy way of breaking this. Sherlock…he's been shot."

"_What_?" She sat up in bed, feeling an icy trickle of fear running down her spine. "That's – that's _impossible_." To her horror, she heard herself giggle slightly. It was _unthinkable_ – Sherlock would _never _be caught out that way.

"Molly?" She heard John's voice as if far away, barely penetrating the roaring in her ears. "Are you OK?"

"Yes, but it's just… it really _is_ Sherlock?"

"I was _there_ this time," he said, quietly, after a long pause.

She tried to gather her thoughts. "I'm sorry, I don't seem to know what I'm saying… John, _tell me_. It's – it's… how bad is it?"

She knew by his hesitation that it wasn't good news. "He… They told me he died on the table, but they brought him back… He came through but it's touch and go. Molly, I'm _so_ _sorry_…"

She knew he said some other things to her after that but she had no real idea what, as she sat there in bed, numbly staring at nothing.

* * *

It was several days before she saw him.

She knew the score, so she didn't even try. It would be next-of-kin only – and she wasn't surprised to learn that Sherlock had already named John ahead of his parents and Mycroft. What _they_ made of this, she couldn't imagine. Anyway, John was there most of the time; she knew that because he kept updating her on Sherlock's wellbeing.

Against all the odds, he seemed to be pulling through. John hadn't told her the details – he hadn't had time to come to see her – but she could tell by his almost obsessive updating of Sherlock's status that it really _could_ have gone either way during the first couple of days. By the fifth day, his texts seemed a little more cheerful and he didn't text quite so often, so she could tell that he felt safe to leave Sherlock to his own devices. John could be rather like a bulldog when it came to his patients (and she had no doubt he considered Sherlock to be one of them). He would worry at the details and snap at the heels of the poor staff involved until he was absolutely certain that Sherlock was receiving the best care.

Eventually, even John was suggesting that she might like to pop in at some point. He was planning to bring Greg to see him soon, and since Greg was likely to give Sherlock hell for getting shot in the first place, it might be that Sherlock would appreciate a more sympathetic visitor first.

"And _I'm_ supposed to be that sympathetic visitor, I suppose!" she muttered to herself as she read this. She wasn't sure she _could_ be. After all, she had seen the newspapers.

She couldn't really miss them. All the tabloids had picked up the juicy story and Molly saw the photographs as she passed the news stall outside the tube station while leaving work. The same smiling face, the mischievous little glint in the eye… Janine.

Rather guiltily, she bought copies of The Sun, The Mirror, The Mail and the Daily Express and sat down in a café to read them. They printed variations of the same prurient details - kinky sex, several times a night, red-blooded detective who used his deer-stalker as a sex aid, etc. etc. Molly didn't usually read the tabloids – she prided herself on having more intelligence than to believe their gossip and she found their obsession with sex and scandal repulsive – but this was different. If there were _no _truth in it at all, then Janine couldn't possibly have got away with selling to all the newspapers. Maybe one would pick it up based on dubious fact, but for all of them to run it, they must have been sure that she really did spend some "passion filled" nights at Baker Street. And there were the claims of an engagement too.

She closed her eyes and visualised the tall, dark-haired beauty in her lilac gown. She remembered how Sherlock _hadn't_ recoiled from her touch, how he had looked at her when he mentioned 'the beautiful' in his speech, how he'd looked around anxiously at the disco until his eyes had alighted on her.

Yes. It _was_ possible to imagine it. It _could_ be true. She was funny, lively, pretty, intelligent. She was tall, like him, and vibrant, and with her dark glossy hair and polished fingernails, not unlike a certain other woman…

On the other hand, "seven times a night" was clearly untrue. She doubted that even an eighteen year old had a short enough refractory period to achieve _that_, let alone Sherlock, who didn't appear to have a particularly strong sex drive in the first place. Plus, she knew for a fact that he detested the hat. So if _that _detail was wrong, then was it really likely that any of it was true? She remembered how flushed and embarrassed he had looked when discussing his sexuality with John all those years ago, and was certain that _that _was far closer to the truth. This prurient story just didn't ring true.

She pushed the papers to one side. Whatever the truth _was_, she thought, looking down at Janine's smiling face with utter contempt, _someone_ had made a lot of money out of it.

She hesitated outside his private hospital room, feeling suddenly unsure. What proof did she have that Sherlock wanted to see her? They weren't exactly close friends… in fact, were they even friends at all from Sherlock's point of view? For a while, she had thought so, had even foolishly congratulated herself on the fact that he had turned to her when all other doors weren't open to him – but then, of course, there was a reason for that, wasn't there? The hard fact was that he had needed her because she _wasn't _one of his acknowledged friends. He had expressed his gratitude and told her that she _did_ matter, but could she believe anything he said anymore? Addicts were notorious for their ability to deceive the people around them, and Sherlock was better than most at that.

She took a deep breath and knocked on the door before peering around it, timidly.

His appearance shocked her into brief immobility. She had some idea from John that he'd suffered terribly, but that didn't prepare her for the harsh reality. He was propped up in bed, looking thinner than ever in his hospital gown. His face was deathly pale, in fact almost grey, and his lips colourless, with purple smudges under his eyes. He looked as if he hadn't slept for weeks. He was clearly in severe pain; his compressed lips and the careful way he held himself made that clear.

He nodded jerkily to her in acknowledgement. Taking this to be an invitation to come in, she shut the door behind her and perched on his visitor's chair. She hadn't brought any gifts with her because, basically, what could she bring that he would appreciate? He'd scorn flowers and any grapes or chocolate would probably be thrown away. She didn't think it likely that the staff here would appreciate body parts – or at least not in this exclusive private hospital that she had never visited before. At Bart's, they might have had more of a sense of humour about it.

She sat quietly, examining his face. He didn't look especially surprised to see her, but then why would he, this was Sherlock after all. He didn't look particularly pleased either – or rather it would be truer to say that he looked completely neutral.

She tried to match him by making her own face neutral, trying to hide how much it shocked and hurt her to see him like this. She couldn't have tried hard enough, though, as his face twisted into an ironic little smirk.

"Bit of a shock, eh? Not how you normally see me."

She stared at him uncompromisingly. "I've seen you look worse. I'll take a gun wound over a heroin high any day."

He winced as he shifted slightly on the bed. "Why don't _you_ try it, and then come back to me on that?"

She couldn't think of any suitable response to that, so tried to change the subject. "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner."

"Why _would_ you?" There was an expression of weary incomprehension on his face.

Once she might have felt offended or hurt by this comment. Now she recognised the question for what it was: pure logic. There _was_ no logical reason why she should have visited sooner. Logic held no space for the vagaries of the human heart.

"You're in a lot of pain," she observed. "The morphine…?" Looking across him, she could see that the dial was turned right down.

He smiled mockingly, his eyes following her glance. "Well, it's not a good idea for an _addict_ to get too…accustomed, is it?"

"You're weaning yourself off..." She looked at him, intently. "Is that the _only _reason why?"

He gave her an interrogative look that was dulled only a little by pain.

She forced a smile. "Come _on_, Sherlock. It's _me_. Everything you _do_ has a hidden purpose. What is it this time?"

He continued looking at her, his face blank. "I'm sorry that you've broken up with Tom."

"_Oh, for_ -." She looked away quickly, biting her lip to hold back the instinctive anger. Her eyes alighted on a pile of tabloids on his bedside table and she raised an eyebrow.

He looked at them and sighed. "All untrue, of course. Oh – except the engagement. I _was_ engaged to her – for about ten seconds, I suppose. At least…does it count if you don't get around to putting the ring on her finger?"

"I haven't the least idea," she said, wearily. "How many papers did she sell her story to?"

"Most of them." He closed his eyes for a moment and then refocused on her, the faintest of smiles on his face. "She had a fair point. I _did_ exploit her, but then it turned out that she was exploiting me."

"And I suppose that makes it alright?" She glared at the smiling image in the deer-stalker.

He seemed startled by the anger in her voice. "Why are you…? Do you suppose it matters in the _slightest _what they write about me?" He looked at the pile, dismissively. "Today's gossip, tomorrow's pulp. They'll forget soon enough."

"It might cost you some customers."

"No it won't. Not the ones that _matter_, anyway." He frowned down at his hands and muttered, "And maybe that's the trouble.".

She had a suspicion she was not supposed to have heard that, but she replied anyway. "I'm not sure I understand you."

He smiled, an odd, slightly sad little smile. "And when have you _ever_ understood me, Molly Hooper?"

"I -," she began, but he shook his head and put his hand up, unable to suppress a slight gasp as he did so.

"I said I was sorry you ended your engagement with Tom. You thought I was being flippant, to distract you from your question. I wasn't. I _am_ sorry. It would have been the best scenario for you. Domesticity, the chance of children, safety…"

"Boredom," she muttered, under her breath, but he caught it anyway.

"_Boredom_," he repeated, and laughed. "Don't underestimate it. He'll never get shot or have to fall off a roof. He'll never hurt you or insult you or leave you. Did you think you'd get something from me that he can't give you? Don't you want to be loved?"

She drew herself up, defiantly. "That's none of your bus -."

"Do you want _my_ advice?" He waved a limp hand. "Ring him. Tell him you never meant it. Tell him you want to come back. Tell him – tell him that you _want_ to be bored for the rest of your life. The alternative is too painful to contemplate."

She felt a flash of anger. "Don't try to run my life!"

"Why? Don't you like it? No? Then _don't try to run_ _mine_," he hissed, before coughing weakly. He reached for a glass of water and took a large gulp. "Don't presume you know my motivations, and don't you _dare_ lecture me on my life choices! I get enough of that from John."

"It's only because we care about you!"

"I don't need a nursemaid," he sneered. "I didn't need one before John and I don't _now_. You said it yourself, a few minutes ago. There is a _purpose _to everything I do. If you don't trust me to know what's best, then you don't know me _at all_."

"Oh, so you're so good at looking after yourself," she said, stung. "That why you're sitting in a hospital bed, is it?"

He took another gulp of the water and set the glass carefully on the side table. "A miscalculation. That's all. It won't happen again."

His tone was icy enough to make her shiver involuntarily.

He sighed. "Molly, look – I don't actually _mean_ to be cruel. People assume I have no understanding of human emotions – love, hate, fear, affection and so on. That's not true – I do understand. But I choose not to be influenced by emotion. At least _Janine_ knew that, deep down. But _you_? You have the biggest heart of all, Molly – and you choose to waste it on me? When you know that I can never give you what you want?"

"Yes." She closed her eyes against sudden tears and gave a weak laugh. "Yes, I suppose I do. Well…go on, then! Deride me! Tell me how stupid I am for loving you!"

"No, I won't do that." His voice was oddly gentle; she opened her eyes and stared at him, surprised. There was pity in his eyes. "What would be the point? You already do a good enough job of deriding yourself."

She felt almost unreasonably angry again, for the pity as much as anything else. "The trouble with you, Sherlock Holmes, is that you think love is a weakness! You think I'm a fool for loving you, when all it'll bring me is misery and loneliness. But you're wrong! You wouldn't even be alive now if it wasn't for the fact that I love you!"

He laughed, a little hoarsely. "I'll give you that! You are quite right, of course. In more ways than you realise," he added, quietly. "But you're also wrong. I _don't_ believe that love is a weakness. I acknowledge its power for good…in others. It is only a weakness for _me_. Why? Because it can – it _will_ – be exploited to weaken me. I have made myself too powerful - I have made too many enemies - for it _not_ to be used against me. I don't think you're _weak_ for loving me, Molly. I just wish you _wouldn't _love me, because… Because it will bring you pain. Far more pain than you've experienced so far and sooner than you may think…"

"What do you mean?" Her eyes narrowed. "Sherlock, do you… You _know_ who shot you? Why haven't you _told _someone – John? Greg? You're – you're not going to go after them yourself?"

"Oh, Molly…" He smiled, shaking his head slightly. "I said just now that you didn't understand me."

"Well, I _don't_! Not if you're stupid enough to keep playing games after what's happened to you!"

He sighed. "I didn't mean just _you_. When has _anyone_? No one has the resources – the intelligence - to understand my motivations. Except one person…and he dismisses my motivations as trivial. Irrelevant."

His eyes wandered towards the tabloids. "There are few crimes that I hate in this world so much as blackmail. The power of the written word. One word in the right ear, a single newspaper by-line, one incriminating photograph… and it's the end of someone's career. Or their life. Because it _is _a life sentence. One individual can hold someone's life in their hands for years, dangling threats like drifting strands of a spider's web. Murder, violence – those I _understand_. I can deduce the motivation and the method. But blackmail? It's all about power, and the motivation eludes me. Just like those stories. _Leeches_," he spat, and she jumped at the sudden venom in his voice. "They _knew_ that her story wasn't true, couldn't possibly be true, but they printed it anyway. And I cannot comprehend _why_. Even if it were true, even if I _had_ fucked her seven times a night, what difference does it make to the readers? Do they gossip over it with their insipid colleagues? Do they find it amusing? Do they _fantasize_?"

He shuddered at the idea and then gasped with pain. Molly, who had flinched at the unaccustomed obscenity, walked around the bed and adjusted the morphine drip. He made no move to stop her; possibly he knew that he'd pushed his pain boundaries to the limit.

"Oh no," he went on, speaking a little dreamily now. "Murderers interest me. Consultant criminals _certainly_ do, but _blackmailers_? They hold no interest for me. I merely _detest _them."

He pressed a button on the bed control and moved the head board to recline a little. "And now? Now I have to act against the _one_ person who understands me better than anyone else. Why?" He shrugged. "Because he lives in a world of _compromise_. Everything is negotiation for Mycroft. Give a little here and gain a little there." He laughed, a horribly hollow sound. "He calls it _politics_… You know something?" he said suddenly, looking at Molly. "I once told John that Mycroft Holmes was the most dangerous man he could ever meet. I meant it only semi-seriously at the time…but then…" He shut his eyes for a moment and then opened them again. "_Then_ I hadn't made him my _real_ enemy. My 'arch-enemy', yes, but…"

He closed his eyes again and seemed to doze a little.

She stood by the bed, irresolute. "Um…Sherlock, I think I should go. You need your rest."

Immediately his eyes opened again. They seemed a little softer this time…or perhaps it was just the morphine. But no – his mouth curved in a very slight smile, much warmer than before.

"You helped me, you know."

"When? You mean the fall?"

"No." He shook his head and closed his eyes again. Every word seemed to be a struggle for him, and she opened her mouth to tell him not to talk anymore, but he continued, his eyes still closed. "When I was shot. I saw you. Well, a personification, of course, but…" His smile grew broader. "You told me what to do. How to stay alive."

"Well, that couldn't have been _me_," she pointed out. "I wouldn't have known what you should do, I'm not a doctor."

"You _would_…" His eyes opened again and he looked at her intently. "You know more than you realise, Molly Hooper. Don't forget that." He laughed a little. "You slapped me. In my head. To stop me going into shock. Isn't that interesting? That I should have constructed that image in my subconscious." His speech was slow, the words slurred.

She smiled. "I seem to be making a habit of that."

"Maybe…maybe, I _need_ you to slap me. Sometimes. Just to remind me of…" His voice drifted away.

"Maybe," she agreed, not understanding him, but wanting to soothe him into sleep.

He sighed and seemed to subside into a light doze again. She glanced at her watch and saw that the advertised visiting hours were well and truly over. Perhaps they didn't count here, in this room? No one had asked her to leave so far.

She leaned over, looking into his face. He looked ridiculously young in sleep, although the shadows under his eyes remained. Before she could think better of it, she smoothed back the dark curls and planted a gentle kiss on his forehead before turning away.

"Molly?"

She hesitated and turned back towards the bed. His eyes were open again and looking at her.

She flushed; had he not been asleep after all? "What is it, Sherlock?"

"I might…" He cleared his throat. "I might have to go away again and this time, it might not be so easy for me to come back. I made a vow…and I don't yet know how it will pan out."

She walked back towards the bed. "When?"

"I don't know." His face was grey with fatigue.

She looked down at him, putting a hand very gently on his arm. "What do you need?"

"You…" he smiled, closing his eyes. "…asked me that before."

"Anything, Sherlock. You know that."

"You've always been…a good friend…" He swallowed and seemed to make an effort to stay awake. "Good at _being_ a friend…looking after people. If I have to go…"

"You…want me to look after John? Be his friend? I already am."

"No, I…" He opened his eyes again. "I was thinking more of Mary."

"_Mary_?"

"She's not as strong as she looks. She may need a friend, Molly. There's – it's a gamble, and I don't know – I can't see what the end result will be. That's what I ask." He moved his arm clumsily, tried to clutch at her fingers with little success. "Be a friend if… if she needs one."

She took his questing hand in both of hers and squeezed it. "I will – I promise. If she needs me."

His breathing evened out and his fingers went limp as he finally slipped into a deeper sleep.

When she learned from Greg the following afternoon that Sherlock had somehow managed to escape from the hospital, she wasn't in the least surprised.


	11. Chapter 11

**I'm sorry there's been such a gap. Summer holidays, trying to catch up with work, and all that… Chapter 12 should follow fairly quickly (for me, anyway) - it's mostly written, but I had the split a potentially massive chapter into 2 user-friendly chunks. My thanks, as always, to all you lovely, lovely reviewers! And also, the usual disclaimers apply – not mine, no money.**

**I realise that I may have got the timing wrong on Sherlock's escape – apparently it was the evening, quite possibly on the same day as Janine's visit, when he was discovered missing. Oh well, never mind! Let's stretch it a little…! **

**Also, the first scene here is taken directly from the episode and as far as I can tell, it's not possible to tell whether Molly is talking to Greg, John or Mary. I've decided to assume that it's Greg. It's interesting the people that the three of them seek out – John goes to Mrs H. (Sherlock's pseudo-Mummy and a part of their little 'family' structure), Greg goes to Mycroft and possibly Molly (the two people who helped Sherlock before, typical detective thinking), and clever Mary goes to the one person who is most likely to know where Sherlock is (fanboy Anderson)!**

**I have a bit of an issue with Mummy and Daddy Holmes, I must admit (not with Wanda and Tim, who are just gorgeous). I guess it was very clever for Moffatt and Gatiss to turn them into a sweet if a bit dotty couple with a taste for West End musicals, but it did make me wonder how they'd produced not just one but two highly intelligent sociopaths. Sherlock and Mycroft behave as if they had sub-normal, if not completely traumatic, childhoods, and then there's that flashback in His Last Vow of Sherlock with his dog in that big stately home, so why are they suddenly in a cottage having a cosy family Christmas? Odd. Why **_**was**_** Sherlock 'such a disappointment' in his memory, and to who? Mummy apparently gave up being a genius mathematician for her children's sake, Daddy is just utterly normal, and they're clearly a loving couple. Were they disappointed because Sherlock was socially inept? And… is there a third son called Sherrinford?! It gets more mysterious…! Although I felt they were a bit of a weakness in terms of not making entire sense (to me, anyway), I do hope the parents return in the fourth, just so we can all enjoy Wanda and Tim again! And I have faith that Moffatt and Gatiss will make all clear.**

* * *

Chapter 11

She looked up at Greg across the canteen table in disbelief. She was on a late today and halfway through her tea break when the DI arrived at 5.30, looking extremely pissed off.

"_Really_? I saw him last night and he didn't look well enough to get out of bed for _days_, let alone climb out of a window just a few hours later."

He shook his head grimly. "That's Sherlock for you. Anyway, we're trying to track him down."

"Why? What's he done?"

"_What's he_ _what_? - _Molly_!" Greg's face was a picture. "He's done _nothing_, except potentially bleed out and die in the street! You can't tell me you're not worried – _wait_ -." He peered at her suspiciously. "Did you help him? Have you seen him?"

She placed a hand over her heart. "I haven't - I _promise_. Don't you have any clues? Where would he normally go? Does Mycroft know?"

"Tried that." The irritation in his voice suggested to her that he'd been forced to go and see the 'British government' in person. There was no love lost between the two men due to frequent clashes over the years concerning Sherlock's well-being, so she could guess Greg's feelings about having to ask Mycroft for help.

"And?" She leaned back in her chair, sipping her coffee.

"No luck. No sign of him in any of the usual boltholes. I wondered…" He sounded a little awkward and Molly sat up a little straighter. _Here it comes_. "Well, I know he must have stayed with you from time to time during those years…"

"Yes, he did." She frowned at the speculative look on Greg's face. "Just the spare bedroom." She flushed – Greg knew as well as she did that the 'spare bedroom' in her flat was basically a box room in which she kept various odds and ends, and that no one had ever slept in it. "Well -," she admitted, "- _my_ bedroom. We agreed he needed the space…"

Greg nodded, a degree of understanding on his face. He probably knew better than anyone what a bloody nuisance Sherlock could be as a house guest if he didn't have his own space. Actually, she'd slept in the couch whenever he'd stayed, and he hadn't been any particular trouble, much to her surprise. He might have been too preoccupied or just too tired to make much fuss.

She took a swig of her vending machine coffee and grimaced at the artificial taste. Greg was staring at her as if he'd never seen her before.

"What?"

"You really _aren't_ worried, are you?" He shook his head again. "I don't think I've ever known you to be this calm when it comes to Sherlock."

She thought back to Sherlock's words the previous day. _There is a purpose to everything I do. If you don't trust me to know what's best, then you don't know me_ _at all_.

She took another casual sip and shrugged, trying to appear calmer than she actually felt. "Oh, I'm concerned, of course. But what can _I_ do? If you and Mycroft and John can't find him, there's no chance _I_ will."

He narrowed his eyes. "Are you absolutely certain he's _not_ at your flat? He could break in, couldn't he?"

She considered this for a minute. It was true that Sherlock had always been able to break in if she wasn't there.

She looked up at Greg. "Why _would_ he, though? What would he want from me that he couldn't get at home or at the hospital? He only ever came to me when he needed rest or food and couldn't go to Baker Street for it. And, anyway, if he wanted to get away from _you_, he wouldn't come to _my_ flat, surely? He'd be halfway across the country or something."

He sighed, seeming to accept her logic. "Yeah, OK, well if he _does_ get in touch, let me know. Just to put me out of my misery if nothing else."

"Sure. And can you let me know if you find him?"

He nodded and turned away.

She watched him go and, once he was out of sight, dug her mobile out of her lab coat pocket. There were no messages. She hesitated, thinking for a moment before sending a text.

**Lestrade thinks you're at my flat. MH.**

The answer came almost immediately.

**How dull of him. SH.**

She sat back after reading this and considered. It was a little ambiguous – did he mean that it was a ridiculous assumption to make or that it was dull of Greg to be looking for him in the first place? While she was deciding what to text next, another message came through.

**I can almost feel the cogs turning. I'm not there, so don't bother asking. SH.**

Well, _that_ cleared that up. She thought for a moment before sending another message.

**Try not to bleed out. MH.**

This time, it was nearly five minutes before he replied.

**Endeavouring not to. SH.**

That was not _entirely_ reassuring…however, there wasn't much she could do. She glanced at her watch and put her phone away to hurry back to work.

* * *

She had news from Greg just as she came off duty at midnight. It was short and to the point.

**Found and back in hospital. Internal bleeding but he'll be OK. GL.**

She put her mobile away, letting out a tense breath that she hadn't been aware of holding. She didn't like to badger Greg or John immediately for further details, as they were both probably asleep by now, or at least wishing they were. However, the following morning, she phoned Greg and got more details.

It appeared that John and Mary had found Sherlock somewhere in London and brought him back to Baker Street, where he then collapsed and an ambulance was called. He'd been taken to the nearest A&amp;E and taken in for emergency surgery but, again, Mycroft intervened and he was transferred back to the private hospital the following day. She had visions of guards being posted at every exit to try to stop the detective absconding again, although by all accounts he really _was_ too unwell to move this time.

She left it a couple of days before visiting again. As she approached his room along a quiet, carpeted corridor in the private hospital – the same room, she noted, wondering briefly whether it was permanently reserved for members of the Holmes family – the door opened. A small sixty-something woman with short white hair emerged from the room, followed by Mycroft Holmes, looking as frazzled as she had ever seen him.

Molly stopped, not sure what to do, as the woman approached without noticing her. She was too busy talking over her shoulder at Mycroft.

"…and what is the _point _of you working for MI6 or 7 or whatever the number is these days, if you can't find out _who did it_? I mean, _really_ Myc, I'm _disappointed_ in you. I ask you to keep an eye on my boy -."

"Well, I can hardly watch him all the time, Mother," came the tired reply. "I _do_ have a full-time job, you know. And a country to run."

Molly had a strong feeling he'd had this conversation many times before.

"Nonsense! What could be more important than your own brother's safety? I don't want to hear any more of your prattle about running the country. It's just the same as when you were boys and he -." Mrs Holmes came to a halt, seeming to notice Molly for the first time. "Well, hello! Are you here for my son? The other one, I mean?"

Molly found herself in the bizarre position of facing a member of the Holmes' family who was actually smiling in a genuine manner, rather than the artificial grimaces that both brothers seemed to specialise in. What made it even more confusing was that this friendly stranger was, quite obviously, Sherlock's mother. She had many of his features, moulded into a more feminine shape and looked as if she had been a beauty in her younger days. Even now, she was an attractive woman. Her most striking features were her eyes, which had the same unusual characteristic as her younger son's – an ever-changing hue that was very blue at the moment. There was considerable intelligence in those eyes too, and they examined Molly with the same keen intensity, but the scrutiny was somehow kinder and less invasive.

Mycroft featured her much less; Molly presumed he resembled their father more. Nevertheless, he wore the slightly put-upon expression that was universal to adult sons with formidable mothers.

"Um, yes – I'm Molly Hooper." She shook Mrs Holmes' proffered hand, adding hastily, "I work at Bart's in the laboratory, and Sherlock -."

"Ah yes, of course!" The woman took her hand in both of her own and her eyes sparkled. "I know _all_ about you, of course. Sherlock's father and I have always wanted to thank you for helping him during that _dreadful_ time, but Myc thought it better not -."

"Probably best not discussed in a public area, Mother," Mycroft interrupted smoothly, with just a hint of steel in his eyes.

Mrs Holmes rolled her eyes. "Hardly a _public_ area, Mycroft. Well, it's lovely meeting you at last, dear. You must come and visit us at home some time. We live the Cotswolds, you know, right out in the country. A lovely cottage, quite different from London… I'd like to take Sherlock back with me to recover properly, but Mycroft doesn't seem to think that he will want to travel there. It's not worth visiting him today, by the way. He's been sedated – he was asleep the whole time we were there, I did hope he would wake up but…"

Mycroft took her politely by the arm. "I've arranged a car, which is _right outside_, Mother, and my assistant is waiting to escort you. Didn't you want to go straight home tonight?"

"Oh, yes, of course." She bestowed a last charming smile on Molly and allowed herself to be towed away by her older son, who was clearly attempting to be polite but failing. Molly smiled a little at the sight of him tapping his foot with ill-concealed impatience as his mother stopped to speak to one of the doctors further up the corridor.

She watched until they were out of sight and then stood for a moment, irresolute. It was tempting to take a peek anyway, just in case Sherlock had woken up, but she was still trying to decide what to do, when Mycroft returned, looking a little weary.

"I do apologise. My mother can be overwhelming," he said to her, by way of greeting.

"She seemed nice actually." Molly thought of her own mother, now a retired GP living fairly quietly in a Hertfordshire village. She'd been the practical, sensible kind of mother – not unloving but a little restrained in her emotions. Molly had always been closer to her father when growing up. Nowadays, her mum was clearly proud of her daughter in her own quiet way, was still as practical and sensible as ever and was always happy to help Molly out financially. However, Molly found Mrs Holmes' air of intelligence combined with slight dottiness rather charming.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in what looked to be genuine surprise.

"It's unlikely that he will have woken up in the meantime," he said, as Molly glanced towards Sherlock's door. "He asked the doctor to increase his sedation purely because he knew our mother was on her way. He's trying to avoid any discussion of being dragged back to the cottage to convalesce."

She giggled at the thought of Sherlock ensconced in a cottage, miles away from his experiments and criminals and beloved city.

He looked a little startled at her amusement, but gave her a polite nod. "Well. The work does not stop, even if my mother trivialises its importance in relation to my _dear_ little brother. Good afternoon, Miss Hooper."

He made to turn away. She was struck by the sheer weariness in his body posture. Much to her own astonishment, she suddenly felt sorry for Mycroft Holmes. She had the impression that, for all his money and possessions and the support staff surrounding him, the man was terribly lonely. And it couldn't be easy being Sherlock's older brother, trying to span the gulf between the consulting detective and his parents. She could imagine a younger Mycroft constantly being harangued for Sherlock's perceived shortcomings.

It must have been some mad, suicidal impulse that made her speak. "Er, actually, there was something…I wanted to ask…"

She could see the momentary hesitation, the stiffening of his shoulders, before he turned around. He gave his usual inquiring smile, what she thought of as his 'professional face', but there was something a little stilted about it.

"Yes, Miss Hooper? Is there something I can help you with?"

"Actually, I was wondering if you would like to get a coffee? Or tea? Just… you look tired, and I wondered…but it's probably stupid, I mean you can get coffee at work…but…" She swallowed and tried to force a smile on her face. "Would you care to join me?"

He stared at her, appearing to be lost for words. She squirmed, a little uncomfortably under his incredulous expression.

"Um, well, not to worry… I don't even know where there's coffee around here anyway…" she murmured and made to pass him.

"Do I hear you right, Miss Hooper? _You_ – are inviting _me_ – to accompany you for a _drink_?"

"Well, just a tea or coffee," she extemporised. "And you can call me Molly – er, if you like, of course."

He still looked a little stunned. "Good heavens. You must excuse me, Miss Hooper, but I cannot quite recall the last time I received such an invitation."

She flushed, suddenly a little angry. "Yes, well, I suppose I can't really match all those ambassadorial receptions - ."

"No – you misunderstand me. I meant only that I have not received a casual social invitation for…longer than I remember." His lips twitched wryly. "I cannot imagine why."

She flushed even more, as she realised that he might get entirely the wrong impression of her motivations. "I mean, it's not a… I just – I thought you looked as if you could do with a drink."

He laughed grimly. "Miss Hooper, you have _no_ idea." He raised an eyebrow. "Well…I can certainly spare an hour…"

She laughed, nervously. "I don't know if there's somewhere around here..."

He hesitated for a moment, giving her a speculative look, and then seemed to make a quick decision. "I know of a place nearby, if you don't object to a short car ride…?"

When she nodded her assent, he politely ushered her along the corridor. As he did so, he took out his mobile and spoke some terse, quiet instructions into it, presumably to his mysterious assistant.

Molly bit her lip and followed him, wondering what temporary madness had made her think it would be a good idea to invite the mysterious and quite certainly dangerous Mycroft Holmes to tea.


	12. Chapter 12

**Oh, good heavens! What was originally intended to be a single 'filler' chapter before moving on to the next piece of action in His Last Vow has turned into: not 1 chapter, not 2 chapters, but 3! It was just getting SO long and I had to break it up once more. So, here's another slightly shorter chapter for you; next to follow soon.**

**Arcoiris made a really useful observation with regard to my comments on Mummy and Daddy Holmes - saying that Steven Moffatt had said that having ordinary, loving parents had given Sherlock and Mycroft their great confidence and had also stopped them from becoming evil, which is a really good point. (Can't reply direct to you, Arcoiris, as you reviewed as a guest). That does make tremendous sense and actually it takes me back to series 2 A Scandal in Belgravia, where Sherlock saunters into Mrs Hudson's kitchen and helps himself to a mince pie from the fridge without asking. I remember Benedict saying something about it being typical of an adult son visiting home - Mum's home cooking and all that. So yes...I can see that.**

**Usual disclaimers apply. And thanks for your lovely reviews!**

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Chapter 12

The car drove just a few streets before pulling up outside a large, white, pillared building in an expensive-looking neighbourhood. It didn't look much like a café to Molly, who hesitated before she exited the car.

"Um…how much is this likely to cost me?"

"Oh, you needn't worry about that. It's my club," Mycroft said, casually. "I thought it might be a little more private. Generally, I don't go into _cafes_." He pronounced the last word as if it offended him. "I should warn you, however, that there is a strict code of silence outside of the private rooms."

He gave her a meaningful look at these last words before politely ushering her ahead of him up the steps.

She wondered how, from a simple invitation for coffee, she'd been inveigled into entering yet another of Mycroft Holmes' overwhelming domains. Part of her felt a little angry – trust _him_ to turn an opportunity to his advantage! But then it occurred to her that there might not be any ulterior motive – perhaps Mycroft was simply telling the truth when he expressed his desire for privacy.

Then again, this _was_ Mycroft Holmes…

"Do women ever go in?" she asked, half to herself, as they passed a brass plaque proclaiming the building to be The Diogenes Club. She'd received a certain impression of the place from descriptions given by John

Mycroft gave her strange look. "Well, they're not banned outright. This _is_ the twenty-first century. However," he added, thoughtfully, as if giving her question more serious consideration. "I suspect it is not a place where a woman might _generally_ feel at home. It is rather old-fashioned."

"No kidding," she muttered to herself, as a bow-tie-and-dinner-jacketed doorman who looked about eighty opened the door to them and gave her a rather horrified look before bowing obsequiously to her companion. Did places like this _really_ still exist?

Without a word from Mycroft, the man led them along a dark oak-panelled passageway, past several closed doors before choosing one. She noticed suddenly that his shoes were covered by some kind of felt slippers, muffling his footsteps. She let out a muffled snort of laughter at the incongruous sight and the man gave her a quelling look as he stopped and opened a door, apparently at random.

Mycroft ushered Molly in. "May I offer you coffee or tea?"

"Coffee, please." She stepped into a large empty room, richly carpeted and wood-panelled.

Mycroft nodded at the man, who withdrew, shutting the door quietly behind him. Molly looked around curiously. There were leather armchairs and coffee tables in various locations, bookshelves all around the walls and a large number of Victorian- and Edwardian-era objects scattered about in a manner that looked haphazard but clearly wasn't. The overall impression was of a bachelor's study circa 1910. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, although she doubted she could ever feel completely relaxed here. The staff gave her the creeps for a start.

"Is all this _yours_?" she asked, looking at the large collection of books on the shelves.

"The room is permanently reserved for me," he replied, not quite answering her question. He seemed a little distracted, frowning at his mobile phone as he sat down behind a large oak desk.

"Home away from home…" she murmured, wandering over to a small side table and running her fingers over a no-doubt priceless vase. She wondered whether Mycroft had filled the room with his own possessions or whether the Diogenes owned them. The leather-bound books that she could see on a nearby shelf had a well-thumbed look about them, but how much spare time did a man in Mycroft Holmes' position have to read books?

"At least, I _suppose_ it's a home away from home… Where _do_ you live, Mr Holmes? I don't mean to be nosy, but your parents live in the country, so presumably you must -."

She had turned to look at him again as she spoke, and her voice died away as she focused on his face. He had placed his mobile squarely on the desk and was staring at his hands, quite motionless. The expression on his face was so desolate that her blood ran cold.

"What is it?" she cried. "Mr Holmes, is there – is it -?" For a horrible moment, she thought that something must have happened to Sherlock since they left the hospital.

He suddenly seemed to sense her gaze and his head snapped up again, a bland smile firmly back in place. "My apologies, Miss Hooper. No, there is nothing for you to be concerned about. The job, as you see, doesn't stop. Please do take a seat."

She lowered herself into the nearest armchair, still a little shaken by the broken expression that had been on his face only seconds before. And now he seemed utterly unconcerned, the perfect host. How did he switch from one mood to the next so quickly? And which was the act – the grief-stricken man or the pleasant host? Or were they _both_ acts?

"I hope I'm not keeping you from anything important…?" she said, slowly, not knowing what else to say.

His smile was weary. "Nothing that cannot wait for an hour or two, certainly."

"I'm sorry," she said, after a short silence. "It must be a difficult job – what you do. I mean, obviously I don't know exactly _what_ you do, but I'm sure I couldn't do it anyway, whatever it is." She laughed nervously, despising the horribly shrill sound she made, but she couldn't help it – her nerves were in shatters. "I don't think I'd be much good at all that espionage and disguise and – oh, _I_ don't know – _politics_."

He seemed amused – again, was that an act or was he allowing himself to be diverted from his troubles by the topic of conversation? "No, I don't suppose you would. And yet, you are attracted to my brother, or to his lifestyle at any rate – a lifestyle that involves a considerable degree of all of those elements. I wonder why that might be?"

She lifted her head, looking him squarely in the eye. "It's more a case of the former, as I'm sure you know."

He acknowledged the truth of this, with a little bow of his head. The gesture should have appeared mocking, but somehow she sensed his sincerity.

"As for his lifestyle – well, I'm not sure I _am_ attracted to it. I'd far sooner he lived a quieter life. Perhaps as a research scientist or a forensic pathologist, he has so many skills. Publishing papers…"

"And then retiring early to the country to live in a cottage and keep bees?" he continued, and this time there was a slightly mocking undertone to his voice. He observed her for a moment and then shook his head, gently.

"No. I'm afraid you _are_ attracted to the secrecy and espionage and danger. Any initial impression my brother may have made on you due to his appearance and charismatic behaviour would have faded a long time ago, helped along by his ability to offend you with his helpful comments and his apparent disregard for your own safety. And yet, you stay." He gave a short laugh. "How very _amusing_. I had not considered it before, but my brother appears to have surrounded himself with individuals who crave a life on the edge, but would deny it utterly if asked. John Watson's nightmares and psychosomatic limp return when he is _not_ actively involved in hazardous activities. Detective Inspector Lestrade is so busy living his life on the periphery of the criminal world that he is incapable of sustaining a normal family life, much as he would like to. And _you_. The moment my brother calls, you go running…and not just because of his dubious good looks. What does that say about _him_, I wonder?"

Recognising a rhetorical question, she opened her mouth to ask him another, but at that moment, the door opened and the ancient minion wheeled in a trolley containing a large silver coffee pot, a cream jug and plates of sandwiches and scones.

Mycroft caught Molly's quizzical expression. "I thought you might care for something to eat. I usually have something at about this hour. I work well into the evenings, you see, and despite my delightful brother's much aired views, lavish dinners and ambassadorial receptions are not always involved." He laughed. "I suppose it takes me back to my childhood – tea in the late afternoon."

She was reminded of the meal she'd had with Mycroft some months' ago and how she'd been agreeably struck by his wholehearted enjoyment of his food. As on that occasion, once the attendant had poured their coffee and withdrawn, he applied himself liberally to the sandwiches.

To be polite, she selected a sandwich, although she didn't feel particularly hungry. The coffee was richer than she liked it due to the cream, and she sipped it slowly.

"I wonder you don't try to reduce our influence on Sherlock if you think we are all 'addicted to danger'. Surely we can't be good for him," she added, trying to be a little provocative.

He smiled. "On the contrary, I think the three of you are a _very_ good influence on him." He put down his cup and plate and gestured at her. "Consider the alternative. In the - in any case unlikely - event that my brother chose to ally himself with people who were looking for a quiet, predictable life, how long would it be before he grew bored and started looking to certain undesirable outlets? That was the mistake I made initially," he went on, reflectively. "The first time he went through rehabilitation, I sought to create a quiet life for him. A day job to keep him occupied, a furnished flat, and so on. That did _not_ go well." There was a wry twist to his lips. "I seem to recall a certain Detective Inspector's less-than-flattering comments on the reasons why. It would seem that a common policeman with only average intelligence understood my brother's personality better than _I_." His voice revealed his surprise that this might be the case.

"And you _hate_ that, don't you?" she commented, smiling. "Someone knowing better than _you_."

His lips twisted in annoyance. "The sheer unlikelihood is mildly diverting, I suppose."

She laughed as she nibbled on the smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwich on her plate. It was delicious, and her stomach rumbled with a renewed interest in food as she ate it quickly and then helped herself to another sandwich and a fruit scone.

"Greg's not actually that unintelligent. Well -," she amended, as she saw his raised eyebrow, "- he might seem so from your point of view, I suppose. But then, we _all _would. He's really quite astute – particularly when it comes to human nature."

Much to her surprise, he nodded in agreement as he bit delicately into a scone. "The good Detective Inspector would hardly have risen to his current level of seniority if he were _not_," he commented, when he had swallowed the last crumbs.

She followed suit. The scone was, of course, delicious, melting in her mouth. This man was an enigma. In many ways, he seemed as arrogant and superior as his younger brother, but the harsh edges that were characteristic of both brothers seemed a little more honed and less painfully sharp in the older. He took her more seriously than Sherlock – or appeared to, anyway - not discounting her theories out of hand and appearing to actually agree with her on some occasions. She tried to remember if Sherlock had _ever_ said anything positive about Greg.

But…at the same time, there was a degree of manipulation in him that she disliked intensely. In that sense, he seemed far more dangerous than Sherlock. Or maybe it was simply that she was wise to the ways of Sherlock now, and knew perfectly well that the winning smile and the forced compliments were usually the forerunner to a request? In Mycroft's case, she felt herself to be in real danger of a far more subtle form of (purely platonic) seduction.

"So – _what_ then?" she prodded him. "You only tolerate John, Greg and I because we keep Sherlock out of danger?"

"For the most part," he agreed, equably, as he dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "There _are_ incidents, of course, but between the hard-bitten Scotland Yard detective, the ex-soldier with his illegal gun and the ever-loyal pathology assistant, my help is hardly _ever_ required."

"And if we didn't help him, or we harmed him, you would…_remove_ us, I suppose," she commented, drily.

He gave her an odd look. "What degree of influence do you suppose me to have over such matters? I hardly have the level of power that allows me to abduct a British civilian who has committed no crime, whatever you may think."

"Well, then – you'd _persuade_ us," she said, looking at him very directly. "A new job, a new life, something like that? But if you think you could convince _John Watson_ with _any_ amount of money…"

"I doubt I could convince _any_ of you – with all the money in the world." There was that strange look again, but this time, she realised that it was rather grudging admiration. Mycroft's face seemed to be warring with opposing expressions – quite clearly, he was not used to feeling admiration for someone, and he detested the idea.

He sighed, and ran a hand over his face before continuing. "For which, I am thankful – more than you will ever know. There is no doubt that he will _need_ you in the coming weeks and months. And I mean _you_ particularly, Miss Hooper."

She was silent for a moment. "What is it, Mr Holmes? Is Sherlock in danger?"

He was silent for even longer, before sighing again. "Please, call me Mycroft. And yes, I believe he _is_ in danger." His voice was tense with anger, and it took her a minute to realise that it was not aimed at her. "My brother seems intent on throwing himself in the way of men who would wish him the greatest harm. One would have thought that his disastrous encounter with James Moriarty would have taught him a lesson. He need _not_ have provoked this particular individual. I told him to keep away, but would he _listen_?"

It was very much the exasperated tone of an older sibling in relation to a wayward younger one, but from the worry in his face, she sensed fear as well. Fear for Sherlock.

"Will he…" she swallowed. "Um, will he have to disappear again?"

He shook his head. "With his high profile, we could hardly hope to get away with such a plan twice. And this man is… He is an extremely dangerous individual, not in terms of deeds, but in terms of thoughts…words. He would see through any attempt at subterfuge."

"You said Sherlock would need me. Why _me_ in particular?" she asked, even as her heart beat faster at the thought. "Why not John?"

"Because, once again, you have slipped beneath the radar of an extremely clever foe. And also because -," he sighed again, his eyes dropping to the screen of his mobile, "- it is by no means certain that John Watson will be in a position to support him – even if he still wishes to. He may not be…inclined. It rather depends on the outcome of certain events."

She frowned. What could possibly affect John's loyalty to Sherlock? And who was Sherlock's new enemy? Surely he had covered every angle following Moriarty's death?

"I suppose there's no point in me asking…?"

"_No_." The answer was clipped. "There is _not_. It is not my story to tell, and it is unlikely that Sherlock or John would wish certain facts to be shared. I cannot yet see my brother's plan, although he undoubtedly has one, and that concerns me…"

His steel grey eyes were distant as he stared a point on the wall somewhere behind her. She had the distinct impression that he had forgotten she was present.

As the silence stretched out uncomfortably, she shifted in her chair. His attention snapped back to her and his expression returned to professional blandness. "Apologies again, Miss Hooper. Would you care for another coffee?"

She realised she was still clutching a half-drunk cup of cold coffee. There was a swirl of cream on the surface, making her feel queasy; she put the cup down quickly. She wouldn't have minded a cup of ordinary tea, just to wash the rich taste away. However, although he was polite, she sensed he would rather she left him to his troubled thoughts.

"No, thank you. I should let you get on with – you know. Whatever it is that you actually do." She smiled at him a little cheekily as she stood and, rather uncertainly, he returned her smile.

"Well, I'm staying here for now, so I'll arrange for the car to drop you wherever you wish." He pressed a button on the corner of the desk and the silent minion appeared almost immediately. "Please give some consideration to what I have said, Miss Hooper. My brother may not realise it, but he _does_ need you. And you _do_ count, even if certain criminal elements appear to constantly overlook you."

She paused as he escorted her across the room. "You said that to me once before. That I _didn't _count but that I _would_ – one day?"

He hummed his agreement. "And that day may be sooner than any of us think."

She gave a small laugh. "As usual, I don't really understand you."

The look he gave her had a touch of pity in it. "Oh yes, you do, Miss Hooper. You understand _perfectly_, although you choose not to see the facts at the moment."

She took a deep breath, trying to control the slow surge of anger inside. These mind games infuriated her – he must know perfectly well that Sherlock didn't feel as she did, and it was cruel to give her hope. "If you think," she said, carefully, "that your brother feels more for me than he does for any conveniently-placed and willing fool, well, then you really don't understand him at all."

He touched her back, gently guiding her to the door. "You don't believe me? Visit him again, Miss Hooper. Have the courage of your convictions."

She nodded and turned towards the door.

"Oh, and Miss Hooper?" She turned back to him; in the waning afternoon light of his study, he looked uncharacteristically uncertain. "I would like to convey – that is, I would like to say…" He smiled, a little ruefully. "The personal invitations I receive these days are generally from individuals who wish to ask favours of me. I do not encourage intimacy of any nature, so this does not concern me unduly. However, I can perceive no motive for your invitation this afternoon other than kindness… and while unwarranted, perhaps, it is none-the-less appreciated…"

She felt her face splitting into a grin. "You know, Mycroft, all you needed to say was 'thank you'." As she turned away again, she added, over her shoulder, "You're welcome, by the way. And call me Molly."


	13. Chapter 13

**And here's the final part of my massive chapter - was only supposed to be a short interlude before going on the next part of the story!**

**Usual disclaimers**

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**Chapter 13**

"Where to, Miss?"

She had climbed into the black car, sinking into its luxurious upholstery with a sigh and had momentarily forgotten that she needed to instruct the driver. That was the influence of Mycroft Holmes, she thought ruefully. If you spent too long with the man, you expected him to make every decision for you.

Had she _really_ just called him 'Mycroft'? And told him to call her Molly? Her cheeks flushed at the thought. The most powerful man in Britain, according to rumour, and perhaps one of the most powerful in the world…! Of course, he _had_ asked her to call him Mycroft…

"Oh! Um…" she thought for a moment. "Actually, could you just drive me back to the hospital – where you collected us from, please?"

He nodded, making no comment, and pulled out smoothly into the traffic. In hardly any time at all, they were back at the exclusive private hospital and she was stepping out, thanking the driver before he drove off again. She stood on the kerb, thinking for a minute.

She didn't know what instinct had made her come back to the hospital. By all accounts, Sherlock would be sleeping off his sedative all night, so it would have been more sensible to have gone home and come back in the morning before her late shift. She doubted that when Mycroft had said "visit him again", he had actually meant _tonight_.

Even so… She presented herself at the reception and was waved through immediately, almost casually, despite the increased security on their recalcitrant patient. As she made the journey back up the stairs and along the corridor to his room, she reflected on Mycroft's words.

What she couldn't really understand was his motivation. If he knew his brother at all, he must know that Sherlock was incapable of caring for someone else in that way. He barely cared for _anyone_, even at the most basic level of casual intimacy, so he was certainly incapable of loving her the way she loved him. His one weak spot was John – _that _relationship was one of love, no doubt, even if it was completely platonic. And Sherlock had said it himself, all those years ago – he had no interest in romantic relationships or even just sex.

Mycroft must know that, and yet he seemed to be pushing Molly in his brother's direction. For what purpose? Did he suppose her to be a steadying influence on Sherlock, especially now that John was married and approaching fatherhood? Was this a tacit way of getting his brother to slow down and stop putting himself in harm's way? Again, a pointless endeavour – this _was_ Sherlock, after all.

And what kind of relationship would it be anyway? Would Mycroft really condemn her to a life spent loving a man who could never love her back?

She hesitated at the door before pushing it open and peering around the corner.

Sherlock was lying in a slightly propped up position, his eyes closed. However, as she dithered in the doorway, he spoke without opening his eyes.

"Come in, then."

She walked in, closing the door behind her. "I assumed you were asleep. Mycroft said -." Her eyes went to his intravenous drip.

He opened his eyes and smiled as he saw her look of confusion. "It's not attached. That was just for show, so that Mycroft would leave me alone."

"Oh! He said your mother -."

"I just pretended to be sedated. That was enough for Mother, but not for Mycroft. If he'd known I was play-acting, he would have taken great pleasure in revealing all, so for _his _sake, I spoke loudly to my doctor, asking him for more sedation. He made it look convincing."

She sat down by the bed. "Why would your doctor do that?"

"To stop me telling my physiotherapist, who happens to be his fiancé, about the drunken night spent with the male medical student currently shadowing him that took place while she was away at a conference. It was obvious from the way they kept avoiding looking at each other during this morning's consultation," he added, rather smugly.

She laughed. "That's blackmail! Aren't you worried he'll slip something into your drip to make you drowsy or forgetful or something?"

He gave her a quelling look. "Hardly. He's a good doctor, even if his morals and sexuality are a little…fluid. 'Do no harm' and all that."

He closed his eyes again, seeming exhausted. As she watched those dark surprisingly long lashes framing his pale cheek, she thought that he was beautiful. Like a male Pre-Raphaelite model, with his dramatic colouring and that dark curly hair, grown over-long since the wedding. She tried to imagine lying next to him, waking up to all that ethereal beauty…and failed. It didn't seem even remotely likely.

"So, what did Mycroft want with you?" he asked, sleepily.

"Actually, it was _me_ who invited _him_," she said, pointedly. "I thought he looked as if he might appreciate the company."

His eyes opened and he gave her a mock-alarmed look. "_Mycroft_? Oh Molly, _please_ don't tell me you fell for his 'put-upon' act. He's an expert at that."

"Does it really never occur to you that it might be true?" she said, quietly, a little unsure herself.

His face hardened. "Not really. Mycroft is just Mycroft. The master of manipulation. He'll use a different persona for each individual. In _your_ case, he knew that he just needed to appeal to your soft, womanly heart."

The words were scathing and gave her pause. Was Mycroft really that clever? But then she remembered the stupefaction on his face when she invited him, and the diffident manner with which he thanked her just before she left.

"Well, I don't think you're right," she persisted, stubbornly, and then laughed. "That would be funny, actually - for _me_ to know him better than _you_. He was just now expressing his consternation that Greg understood you better than he did."

"_Was_ he now?" His eyes widened with interest. "_That's_ unexpected. I've never known Mycroft to admit to the slightest chink in his knowledge when it comes to _anything_, let alone _me_. What about?"

"Oh, just something minor," she replied, not meeting his eyes. She didn't like to admit that they had been discussing his past drug dependency at the time.

"Hmm," was his only response, clearly not believing her but not caring much either. After a moment's pause, he added. "Who's Greg?"

"Oh, for _heaven's _sake!" She laughed, exasperation and amusement fighting for supremacy. "You know _perfectly well_ who he is. Why do you always pretend you don't?"

He grinned unrepentantly. "Oh, it's just fun. I don't think Lestrade – _Greg _\- cares much these days."

"It still winds _John_ up," she pointed out, deliberately emphasising John's name and watching his face carefully. "He thinks you're being rude and boorish not bothering to remember."

At the mention of John, the smile disappeared from his face. For the first time that she could recall in their acquaintance, he looked genuinely troubled. She'd seen him under stress before, of course, but also purposeful. This time, she sensed, he had a problem and was quite unsure how to solve it. He looked somehow younger in his confusion – young and very worried - and her heart went out to him.

"Sherlock," she continued, carefully. "What's wrong? Has something happened to John?"

He grimaced, not looking at her. "Not my story to tell."

"Oddly, Mycroft said _that_ too…about the same topic, I think."

He gave her an intent look. "_Did _he?" He frowned, looking away again. "Well, of course he _knows_, why wouldn't he? The question is, what does he intend to do with his knowledge…?" He looked back at her. "How did he look?"

"In general? Worried, I think. In fact…" she frowned a little, "he was quite distraught, although he did a very good job of disguising it."

She hesitated. In a strange way, she felt disloyal to Mycroft, which was disconcerting, because she hadn't felt the slightest concern for Sherlock's older brother before. Still, this was Sherlock, and she knew where her first loyalty would always lie.

"He knows you have a plan of sorts, but doesn't know what it is. He was worried about that."

"As well he might be," he muttered. "What else?"

"He – uh." She looked down at her hands. "He…seemed to think there may be a risk that John wouldn't be able to support you, for some reason. He said it depended on how certain events turned out…"

She hesitated, looking at him. His eyes were closed again and his hands were folded under his chin in his familiar 'thinking' manner. She noticed that he had not reacted to her words about John or denied Mycroft's theory.

"He…also seemed to think you might need _me_. More than John – or anyone else."

This _did_ get his attention. His eyes opened again and he stared at the ceiling in surprise. "Why on Earth would I need _you_?"

She shrugged, too used to the sting by now to react. "I _know_. That's what _I_ said to him. He just did his mysterious 'we'll see' routine. I didn't really understand him. He said something to me once before and…"

She stopped, not sure she really wanted to go further into that conversation right now.

Looking at Sherlock now, she saw his eyes were fixed unwaveringly on her. "You seem to know my brother better than I realised. How often have you met him for coffee?"

His voice was harsh, and she bristled with annoyance. "Only twice! Once when he kidnapped me while you were away, and then today when… well, when I suppose he sort-of kidnapped me again. We went to the Diogenes."

He sat up a little straighter, wincing with the effort. "_You _– went to the Diogenes? He took _you_ there?"

"Yes, he did – so what?"

His expression went distant again. "What's he playing at _now_?"

"Sherlock, I don't understand. Why should it be so significant that he took me there?" she asked, forcing herself to be patient.

"He never takes _anyone_ there," he said, after a moment's pause. He was frowning into the distance, as if trying to work something out. "No one apart from his closest minions and family members… No, wait, not even family members. I don't believe Mother and Father have ever had the _honour_."

He spat out the last words harshly and rubbed a hand over his face. When he spoke again, it was a little dreamily, as if to himself rather than to her.

"So why is insignificant, dull little Molly Hooper of such interest to _him_? Did he tell you that he had a couple of hours to spare before going back to work? Of _course_ he did, making you feel better about taking up his time. Mycroft _never_ has a 'couple of hours to spare'. I don't think he's spent a single minute without a purpose since he was about twelve. He knows that your weakness is your kindness, your empathy; he already knows how to manipulate your emotions. He's…he's trying to elicit your _sympathy_." His eyes were wide with the possibility. "He _wants _you to _like_ him! _Why_?"

She wasn't sure whether she could respond quite coherently to that, so stayed silent. He looked at her and sighed impatiently at the expression on her face.

"Oh, come on, you know _I_ don't mean that you are dull and insignificant. Well, perhaps a _bit _dull, I grant you, but certainly not insignificant. I only meant that that was how Mycroft would see you."

"You're _wrong_," she said, when her brain was able to engage her mouth once more. "I can't pretend to know whether I bore him or not – I'm sure I probably do - but it doesn't matter, and he _certainly_ doesn't think I'm insignificant. He said as much when -."

Her mouth clamped shut. He laughed, derisively.

"I know my brother better than you, Molly. He wants something from you. As he is even less interested in human interaction than I am, I can't imagine what. But it's _something_. Mycroft only ever acts in the interest of himself or his country."

"And _you_ – or had you forgotten how much you owe him?" she said, a little bitterly. "It seems to me that you're quite happy to accept his help when there's no alternative. You'd be dead by now, probably several times over, if it wasn't for him."

He didn't attempt to deny this, but he looked at her carefully, his gaze turning thoughtful, even speculative.

"_Don't_ form an attachment to Mycroft, Molly," he said, quietly. "He's quite incapable of cultivating _any_ positive relationship. All that will happen is that your heart will get broken again."

She reared back, utterly offended by the very idea. Her feelings must have shown in her face, because he laughed. "No? Well, clearly my deduction was wrong there. Human emotions have always been my weakness."

"I _know_ that the Holmes' brothers don't 'do' emotion – I get enough of a reminder from _you_," she told him, firmly. "I haven't the _remotest_ interest in Mycroft. I like him in an odd way, possibly because he's got more of an idea than _certain other people_ of how to treat me with – with polite consideration… but it's not like _that_."

"Good," he said, with surprising intensity.

She stared at him, as he leaned back on his bed, putting his hands behind his head. "I don't get it. Why should _you_ care, even if I did fancy Mycroft or something?" She ignored the pained expression that passed over his face. "I should have thought you'd be glad to get me out of your hair. I'm sure I must annoy you intensely."

"Why should you annoy me?" His voice was airy. "It makes no difference to me whether you're here or not. Beats talking to the wall, though."

She huffed, shaking her head. "You are just so - _so_… I can't understand how John has put up with you for so long."

He gave her a sudden dazzling smile. "You _see_? It's what I've been trying to tell you all along. Bad idea to get involved with _me_, Molly. Haven't you noticed how grey John's hair has gone?"

She laughed, looking down at her hands. "I don't know why I put up with you! Most people would've walked out of your life by now."

"And yet, you're still here."

She looked up and was disarmed by the soft expression in his eyes. Leaning forward, she paused before making the decision to reach out and place her hand over his, squeezing it firmly.

"Like it or not, you're not getting rid of me so easily."

He smiled slightly, looking away from her. She expected him to push away, but instead he turned his hand and entwined his fingers with hers. In an oddly peaceful moment, some kind of unspoken acknowledgement seemed to pass between them.

He sighed, gazing out of the window. "Yes, emotions are not my strong point. Tell me, if you knew of a couple who were likely to separate for the worst of reasons, how might _you_ reason with them - convince them that they should stay together?"

She swallowed, having a horrible feeling that this was not just a theoretical question. Was that what was wrong with John? "I… I'm not sure. I suppose I would try to convince them that it's worth giving it another go. Maybe I would try to show them a good example – a couple who _have_ made it." She laughed, bitterly. "I'm probably not the best person to ask, it's not as if I have a string of successful relationships behind me."

"Well, it was just a thought." He slipped his hand out of hers after giving it a final quick squeeze and reached for his glass of water.

To cover up her disappointment at the loss of contact, she started babbling in her usual nervous manner. "Your Mum seems nice. She invited me to stay with her and your Dad, in the – Cotswolds, is it?"

"Hmm." His response was weary; she suspected that he was used to his parents being praised for one thing or another and was fed up with it. He continued staring out of the window as if she wasn't there.

"She's very like you, I thought. Mycroft must look more like your father, I suppose? You're very lucky that they're both still alive. I don't remember my father all that well any more."

"Molly, don't feel that you _have_ to talk." The words were acerbic but the tone was not. He had closed his eyes again and looked very tired.

She rose quickly. "Yes, sorry, I should've realised you're tired, I'll leave you to sleep…" She walked to the door, pausing to say, "I just meant that you're lucky to have such lovely parents, as I'm sure your Dad is lovely too. It must be nice to have loving parents that are still together and happy…"

His eyes shot open. "Wait, Molly!"

She looked at him in surprise; he was staring at her as if he'd just had a revelation. "What did you just say about my parents?"

"Um – that it must be nice that they're together and happy… I'm sorry if that's not right, I didn't mean anything by it -."

"No…" he breathed, a slow smile forming on his face. "No, that's _perfect_… The perfect example… Molly, you are a _genius_!"

She laughed, lightly. "Maybe Mycroft is right after all. Maybe you _do_ need me – for advice on human emotions and relationships, if nothing else."

"Now don't get _silly_, Molly," he scolded, mildly. However, the smile on his face as he looked up at her seemed to belie his words.


	14. Chapter 14

**Look, I'm getting back on track again! Thanks for your lovely reviews. One little note: I'm not sure if we ever find out Dimmock's first name, so I've made one up for him. Oh, and I'm assuming Cotswolds for the Holmes country home, for no other reason apart from the fact that it's a very pretty part of the country.**

**Usual disclaimers apply: not mine, no money.**

* * *

**Chapter 14**

Molly's time was in high demand over the next few months.

As predicted, Sherlock refused to leave London. Since he also refused, after a blazing argument, to move into his brother's flat to be looked after by hired medical staff, Mycroft washed his hands of the entire affair. Which left John and Mrs Hudson to make decisions on how he should be looked after. Molly and Greg were roped in when it became clear that Sherlock would need more-or-less 24-hour care if he was ever going to make a full recovery.

The main problem was that he _forgot_ to look after himself. John had drawn up a list of suitable foods to get his weight and energy levels back to their pre-operation state and Mrs Hudson had valiantly set to with making various soups, casseroles and pasta dishes, but all too often, Sherlock wouldn't eat them, either because he didn't want to or because he was so busy on some experiment that he forgot to stop for dinner.

So, John, Molly and Greg drew up a rota of visits. One of them would "just pop by" most evenings and nag Sherlock into stopping work for long enough to eat a decent meal. The ruse lasted about 10 seconds, of course, and Sherlock would moan about a "bunch of mother hens", but he would give in if pushed hard enough - if nothing else, then just to get rid of them. Molly thought she'd be the weak link – John was an acknowledged bull-dog in his tenacity and Greg employed a 'heard it all before, not interested in excuses' approach when it came to forcing Sherlock to eat. But in fact she found that she had her own methods too, mainly a 'count to ten and keep repeating until he goes mad' approach.

According to Mrs Hudson's reliable gossip, the person who stayed the shortest length of time was Greg. The DI would be the first to admit that he was an appalling nurse, and also Sherlock irritated him at the best of times, so a bored Sherlock was a serious trial for him. He tended to stay longer if he had some cold case files with him. If Mrs Hudson crept upstairs to check on them during those evenings, she would generally find Greg with his face buried in a newspaper, trying to ignore Sherlock as he harangued the DI for his incompetence.

John stayed the longest by far, quite often not leaving until the early hours, which surprised Mrs Hudson, who worried about his pregnant wife being left all alone on those evenings. On a couple of occasions, he even stayed overnight. When Sherlock had first been discharged, John had moved in for a few days just to get him settled, and Mrs Hudson told Molly he'd left some bedding and spare clothes behind in his old room. When Molly asked John about it, he seemed a bit embarrassed and admitted that sitting in the living room at Baker Street watching TV while Sherlock worked in the background was so reminiscent of his old life that he occasionally forgot the time.

Molly provided the happy medium. To some extent, it depended on Sherlock's mood, but she generally found herself hanging around for an hour or two after eating dinner with him. Sometimes she'd bring her laptop with her and do some studying (she'd started working on her pathology degree), and Sherlock would leave her to it. Other times, she'd be drawn into the consulting detective's strange experiments by sheer curiosity. He didn't seem to mind her watching and sometimes would demand her assistance, holding specimens or tools for him. It was oddly satisfying and she didn't even mind being ordered around. According to Mrs Hudson, Sherlock (who, of course, could predict who was going to 'drop in' each night) was generally in a better mood on the days on which Molly was expected – in fact, the landlady would go so far as to say that he seemed to look forward to Molly's visits. Molly couldn't see much obvious evidence of this, but on the other hand, he didn't look particularly annoyed when she walked through the door. If anything, he seemed to take her presence for granted, which was probably the best she could hope for.

Bit by bit, Sherlock began to recover. He would probably have set himself back if he'd taken on a physically demanding case, but Greg refused to involve him in any Yard investigations until he had a clean bill of health and John had prevailed upon Mycroft to attempt to deter any private enquiries. Fortunately, Sherlock didn't seem that interested. He solved a few minor cases by e-mail and requested a few more cold case files from Greg, but seemed oddly content to stay put. John was surprised by this; Molly not so much. She could see that he was still in considerable pain, although he attempted to hide it. A non-recovering drug addict would've requested extra pain relief, but Sherlock appeared to know his limits. She didn't dare say anything herself, so it was a great relief to her when, after a few weeks, he started to move a little more freely and seemed more comfortable.

She was surprised that John appeared not to know – it wasn't like him to be unobservant - but then she _had_ become something of an expert at Sherlock body language, and maybe the signs were too subtle. Also, John seemed distracted these days – as he grew paler and seemed to lose weight, she began to worry that he was unwell himself. She asked Sherlock a couple of times, but he played ignorant, although she was sure he knew more than he was letting on.

She hadn't forgotten her promise to Sherlock to keep an eye on Mary Watson. She was beginning to wonder if there was a problem with the baby. On a couple of occasions, she asked John how Mary was doing and received an evasive response.

She never received John's promised dinner invitation, but in October, she ran into Mary by chance in the baby department in John Lewis on Oxford Street. Molly had been looking for a present for Mike, whose wife had just given birth to their third child, and Mary was there, buying more prosaic baby supplies. As Mary was alone, Molly offered to help her carry the bags back to their flat in Shepherd's Bush.

Mary looked pale and anxious and seemed almost ridiculously grateful to have Molly's company; offering her a cup of tea so eagerly that Molly couldn't refuse. John wasn't there, but he arrived while they were having tea, and Molly noted with concern the way that Mary flinched visibly as he glanced in her direction. His own face was quite neutral, not angry but there was no sign of the teasing affection she remembered whenever he had looked at his wife on their wedding day.

The tension in the air was almost palpable and Molly was relieved to have a genuine excuse to decline Mary's invitation to stay for dinner. As she left, she resolved to have a serious word with Sherlock when she next saw him; something had gone very badly wrong here and he _must_ know what it was.

While she wasn't occupied with worrying about Sherlock, John and Mary, she was busy studying part-time while continuing in her job. In consultation with Mike she'd worked out a schedule that allowed her to work around the units that she needed to take from the undergraduate medical degree. She found herself studying alongside young medical students and feeling rather old as a result. They were friendly enough, though, especially when they realised that she could help with any questions on laboratory-based sciences. When she heard their horror stories about 72-hour working weeks on clinical placement, she was very glad that she hadn't gone down the traditional medical degree route. She was enjoying the academic challenge, though.

The autumn passed pretty quickly in this manner and she was soon contemplating what she might be doing for Christmas. Rather to her surprise, her mother had decided very suddenly to go on a guided tour of India for the entirety of December. This was a shock as her mum tended to live quietly and generally favoured a traditional Christmas either with her sister in Scotland or with Molly. Last year, she and Tom had spent Christmas Day with her mother, with Tom providing the lunch. It'd been a good day, one of Molly's happiest memories of her time with him…

Anyway, this year there was no Tom and, now, no Mum. She half-expected John and Mary to organise another Christmas party, but nothing was said; possibly they felt it'd be too much for Mary in her current state. Mrs Hudson was off to her sister's, and Sherlock sulkily admitted that Mycroft was dragging him off to their parents in the Cotswolds and that they were taking John and Mary with them. He still refused to admit that he knew what the problem was between the Watsons, and Molly was too peeved with him to pursue it.

So, that was that. If she felt just a _tad_ hurt that the invitation hadn't been extended to _her_…well, that was just one of those things. It didn't promise to be a particularly pleasant occasion anyway, with Sherlock sulking and the Watsons still apparently estranged.

She was beginning to get used to the idea of a solitary day. In some ways, it had appeal; she could eat whatever she wanted to instead of complying with someone else's idea of what Christmas dinner should be – Molly wasn't an enormous fan of turkey with all the trimmings followed by a stodgy Christmas pudding. She could wear her tatty slippers all day and gorge on chocolates and wine while watching the Doctor Who Christmas Special…or she could dig into a new novel without any interruptions…

"Bollocks!" was Greg's somewhat blunt response, when she mentioned it to him. He was in Bart's to collect the preliminary report on an alcoholic who'd had the bad manners to die of a well-overdue heart attack while in police custody.

"You're not going to be alone on Christmas Day – you know why? You're coming to the _party_ – _my_ party," he explained, smugly. "_I _thought it up the other day. It's for those of us sad bastards who don't have any family to visit on the big day. I'm calling it the 'screw 'em all' party. It's for coppers mainly, but we can make an exception for pathology staff cos you work for us anyway. That's right, isn't it, Sal?"

Sally Donavan smiled briefly at her boss and gave Molly a slightly uncertain look. Molly had never had much to do with the DS – she'd only ever seen her in company with Lestrade. She wondered whether Sally didn't care much for her due to her support of Sherlock.

"And here's the thing," Greg went on. "It's a Caribbean theme. Nothing _at all_ relating to Christmas or winter – no reindeer hats or Santa outfits or mistletoe or any crap like that. Grass skirts and fruit cocktails and hula all the way…" He swayed his hips in an unsubtle attempt at a hula dance. "Cos _that's_ where I'm headed when I retire. Day I collect my pension, I'm cashing it all in and getting _out_ of here."

She laughed as he winked at her. It was true that Greg liked hot weather - and Caribbean weather in particular. And in fact, she _could_ imagine him as one of those grizzled old ex-pats living in a house by the sea on some sun-drenched, palm-strewn bit of paradise.

She hesitated…but what the heck, why not? It wasn't as if she'd been invited to anything else, and it promised to be fun.

"OK, I'll look forward to it. Let me know if there's anything I can bring."

He smiled at her, and she saw the warm affection in those brown eyes. "Just bring yourself. Oh – and stay overnight…so you can help me tidy up."

* * *

Molly didn't think she'd ever been to a _really_ wild party. Even at university, she'd tended to leave before things got too lively. Or she'd be the designated driver or the sensible one who made sure everyone else got home safely. She was fairly used to cleaning up after some lively parties, but she didn't really mind that.

She suspected that this one might be livelier than most. Off-duty police officers certainly knew how to live it up. She didn't realise that so many at the Met were single, or that she'd recognise quite a few of them – besides Greg and Sally, she saw several inspectors and sergeants that she'd met at the mortuary, including Dimmock.

When she'd arrived rather shyly at 11AM on Christmas morning, clutching a bottle of wine and feeling faintly ridiculous in a strappy summer dress under her thick coat, there were only five others, but more people arrived as the day went on, until by evening there were at least thirty squeezed into Greg's tiny flat. Greg was wearing the threatened grass skirt, though thankfully paired with bright pink Bermuda shorts, and he and Sally were distributing leis and glasses of banana punch. In fact, the entire party was a bastardization of various tropical cultures – the background music was reggae, but the cuisine was mostly Thai, the costumes predominantly Hawaiian, and the décor just a tad Australian, with a surfboard and an inflatable kangaroo on prominent display.

Molly didn't think she'd laughed so much in her life. The partygoers munched their way through the buffet, cheered raucously at the Queen's Speech, and sank into various sofas and chairs and cushions to watch traditional Christmas afternoon TV programmes, while Molly judiciously made coffee to help them pace the drinking. By early evening, it was time for more cocktails and a slice of the delicious moist rum cake that Sally produced with a shy smile, and then some wild dancing and more drinking.

Molly drank just enough to make her feel light-headed, danced wildly with Greg and several other officers, and had a long, rather sozzled conversation in the kitchen with Ian Dimmock, who turned out to be something of a charmer when he could be persuaded not to whinge about his (very recently) ex-girlfriend. Even Sally turned out to be quite good fun under the influence of the increasingly dodgy drinks.

Molly had planned to stay overnight, since she didn't really fancy trying to find a taxi in the middle of Christmas night, but as it turned out, quite a few others did too. By the early hours, she was picking her way over various snoring coppers to find the spare room. Finding her bed to be occupied by Sally and (somewhat surprisingly) Dimmock, she staggered into Greg's room instead and slumped into bed with him, fully dressed.

The Boxing Day early morning sunshine came through the cracks in the curtain in a rather cruel manner for some.

"Ohhhh – jeez…" Greg moaned, rolling into a protective ball and clutching his head. One bloodshot eye opened and took in Molly. "_Please_ tell me I didn't sleep with you."

She giggled. "Not in _that_ sense, no."

"Thank fuck for that," he moaned, swaying as he staggered to his feet. "No offence, by the way."

"None taken." She stretched out, wrinkled her nose at her crumpled state, and got out of bed. Retrieving her overnight bag from the spare room, with her eyes closed just in case Sally and Dimmock were still feeling amorous, she rugby-tackled a startled Greg and managed to get into the bathroom first.

Afterwards, feeling rather less hung-over than the Met's finest, she volunteered to pop down to the corner shop to get eggs, bacon, mushrooms, baked beans and various other elements to make up a Full English breakfast. She then set about cooking it with great enthusiasm, ignoring various pained groans from the lounge. The hearty breakfast was surprisingly restorative and by midday, she and Greg had managed to turf out the last revellers, including a slightly embarrassed Sally and a thoughtful-looking Dimmock.

They spent most of the afternoon restoring the flat to its former shabby glory. Molly dragged Greg out for a quick Boxing Day walk, and then they settled side-by-side on the sofa in front of the TV with liquor coffees and cheese on toast for tea – a bizarre combination that seemed to work quite well.

Draining his cup, Greg leaned his head back on the sofa with a satisfied sigh. "I think that went quite well, don't you?"

She eyed him suspiciously. "You're thinking of making it an annual event, aren't you?"

"Better than spending Christmas alone," he grunted, sounding suddenly morose.

At that, she stood up. "And that's my cue to leave, if you're going to start getting like that. Early night for _you_, I think." She smiled at him to take away the sting.

He followed her out into the kitchen as she rinsed her plate and cup under the tap. "I'll call you a taxi, unless you'd prefer me to drive you home…? Are you sure you don't want to stay? In the _spare room_, I mean?" he added, grinning sheepishly.

"No - thanks for the offer, but I need to get back to Toby. His feeder only lasts thirty six hours."

She hugged Greg and shouldered her bag when the taxi arrived. Leaning back in the taxi, she wondered how the Holmes/Watson Christmas had gone. Hopefully, a few days away from London would have done John and Mary some good, but she was under no illusions as to the impact on Sherlock, dragged away from his beloved city. She had a sudden vision of the consulting detective in wellington boots and a chunky jumper striding up a Cotswold hill, with his mother and Mycroft haranguing him in the background, and snorted out loud at the image.

Humming cheerfully, and more than a little amused by the fact that _her _Christmas had almost certainly been more fun than _theirs_, she tipped the driver generously and jumped out of the cab. Her heels clattered on the quiet pavement in the early evening darkness as she walked towards her block of flats.

"Miss Hooper."

Looking over her shoulder, she noticed the black car on the other side of the road. Mycroft stood by it, looking strangely diffident for once.

"Mr Holmes – Mycroft? What is it?"

She crossed the road towards him. Mycroft stood silently, his hands buried in the pockets of his heavy coat. At the expression on his face, her insides turned to ice.


	15. Chapter 15

**I can't tell you how many revisions this chapter went through. I can tell you, though, that it was, without a doubt, the hardest thing I have **_**ever**_** written. It gives me a fresh admiration for our wonderful professional writers, that's for sure.**

**Usual disclaimers apply - all belongs to the mighty Mofftiss and the even mightier ACD.**

* * *

**Chapter 15**

The black car delivered them to an underground car park. Molly had only the vaguest idea of where they might be; it had been dark when Mycroft had collected her, and although she thought they were in the vicinity of the Thames, she didn't know for certain. All she knew was that they had driven south of the river over Westminster Bridge, had turned right and headed towards Battersea Power Station and then had gone into ever-smaller and darker streets, twisting and turning until she was completely disoriented. It was almost a relief when the car finally plunged underground and she could give up straining to follow the route.

It was also a relief to get out of the car. Beyond telling her that his brother was in trouble and that he wished to see her, Mycroft had maintained a chilly silence throughout the journey, staring straight ahead and ignoring her questions. She couldn't associate this man with the Mycroft who had so urbanely entertained her at the Diogenes – the man who had smiled, called her Molly and told her to call him Mycroft.

It was three days since he had contacted her on Boxing Day, to tell her that Sherlock wouldn't be returning to Baker Street, although he had refused to explain why. He had warned her not to try to contact John, Mary or Mrs Hudson, or to ask Greg Lestrade about the situation. He had told her that he would be in touch within the next few days, but he couldn't tell her when. He had finished by warning her not to speculate with colleagues or friends over anything she might see on the news.

Of course, nothing was more likely to make her scour the news for the next couple of days, but she couldn't spot anything that seemed to be related to Sherlock – no megalomaniac who was threatening world security unless a certain consulting detective threw himself out of a plane or something. Most of the newspapers appeared to be obsessed with the sudden and tragic death of the media magnate Charles Magnusson, at home on Christmas Day from a sudden heart attack, but there didn't appear to be anything particularly suspicious about that.

She was terrified for Sherlock. She couldn't get Mycroft's white face out of her mind – for _him _to be so agitated, Sherlock must be in a really dangerous situation. If only he'd given her some _clue_; she didn't even know if the consulting detective was injured, or dying, or abducted and at risk of losing his life at any moment. It was painfully hard not to text John or Greg to try to get some information, but she resisted, fearful of the consequences if she did. And, all the time, she had to plaster a smile on her face and try to carry on as normal.

And then, today, just as she left Bart's, the by-now familiar car had appeared on the kerb next to her…

As the car halted in the underground car park, Mycroft opened his door and got out without a word. She opened her own door and followed him, having made the assumption that he intended her to do so. She had to hurry to follow his quick stride across the dark, silent car park.

At a lift door in the wall, he punched a button to summon the lift, his movements stiff and jerky. When the lift arrived, he stood aside to let her through, but she suspected he was scarcely aware of what he was doing and that it was merely subconscious good manners drummed into him by his formidable mother rather than an attempt to be friendly. His face, caught in the blue glow of the dim lift light, was icy pale, his expression more than usually stiff. He looked old…and she was frightened.

As the door closed on them and he pressed a button on the large control pad, she tried again. "Mycroft, _please_ tell me… You're scaring me. What's happened to Sherlock? How bad is it?"

Barely opening his mouth and staring straight ahead, he answered her. "Miss Hooper, I am merely following my brother's orders. He wished to see you. I am unaware of the reason why, but no doubt he will illumine you."

She shivered at the icy tone but persisted. "But – but why is he _here_? Wherever _here_ is… I don't understand."

"_That_ cannot be an unfamiliar sensation for _you_."

She felt her cheeks prickle with humiliation at the insult. True, it was something that Sherlock might say, but she was used to that – and anyway, these days the insults were more tongue-in-cheek than intentionally hurtful. Somehow, she never expected to hear such a childish rejoinder from Mycroft.

She swallowed and lifted her chin defiantly. "Has he been hurt?"

"He would hardly have been brought _here_ if he had," he replied coldly, as the lift opened. He walked out into a corridor – she noted the number 15 on the lift display – windowless and with a number of doors stretching away to the left and right. As she followed him down the corridor past the first door and noted the peephole in it, she realised that this place resembled a prison – a rather high-class one, though, if that was what it was.

The corridor was dimly lit and she couldn't make out any numbers on the identical doors they passed. Nevertheless, Mycroft walked with apparent confidence to a specific door. He inserted a card in a slot, there was a _beep _and the door opened.

The area inside was small and featureless, consisting of a small plastic table and two chairs. There were no windows and the overhead light was harshly bright, not helped by the white walls, ceiling and floor. In fact, everything in here was white and plastic-looking – the surfaces looked as if they were designed for easy cleaning, and she had to suppress a shudder as she thought of the reasons why there might be a need for that. She could see another door in the inner wall. Two guards, sitting at the table, stood as Mycroft walked in.

He nodded briskly at them. "Any problems?"

One of the guards saluted. "No, Sir."

Mycroft turned to Molly. "The doors are controlled by the guards. Inside, you will find a panic button on the wall by the door; there is another one under the table on the side nearest the door. Press it and they will be with you in seconds. You have fifteen minutes only."

She looked up at him with a plea in her eyes. It might have been her imagination, but he seemed to hesitate fractionally before nodding at her, not quite meeting her beseeching gaze. He turned away and left the room.

"Ready to go in, Dr Hooper?"

She nodded, wondering briefly how the guards knew her name before it occurred to her that this visit would have been planned in advance by Mycroft. There was probably little point in asking either of them why Sherlock was here. Even if they were inclined to reply, it was possible they didn't even know.

One of the guards took her by the shoulder quite gently, to position her in front of the inner door. "Remember the panic buttons."

She laughed, slightly hysterically. "Whatever makes you think I'm at any risk from _him_?"

He didn't answer that, simply pushing a card in a slot. The door slid back, and the guards pointed their weapons at the open door.

"Oh, _please_. Hardly necessary. What do you _think_ I'm going to do? Run? Where _precisely _could I go that my brother would not find me?"

The familiar impatient tone was an incredible relief, and she took a shuddering breath and stepped forward quickly. The door swished shut behind her, so close that the back of her coat rippled with the sudden gust of air.

She was in a larger room, white-walled and plain, with a single bunk bed on the far wall and another plastic white table with two chairs in the middle of the floor. There was another door in the wall to the right, presumably leading to a bathroom. It resembled nothing so much as a padded psychiatric cell.

Sherlock was sitting at the table; he was leaning casually across his chair, his feet propped up on the table and looking bored out of his mind. She noticed that he was dressed only in a white shirt and dark trousers and that his feet were bare.

He noticed her scrutiny and rolled his eyes. "They have me on suicide watch. Utterly ridiculous. If I were so inclined, I can think of a dozen different ways of killing myself in here, without the aid of a belt or socks or shoelaces."

She stared at him, trying to drink in the sight of a healthy, unharmed Sherlock. "You…you're _safe_. _God_…" She stumbled across the room and sank into the second chair, heavy with relief. "I had no idea what happened. Mycroft wouldn't say."

He sighed. "He always likes to be _so_ dramatic. One of his many unappealing traits."

"He said you'd tell me… Sherlock, what _is_ this place? And why are you here?"

He drummed his fingers idly, looking at the table. "The first question is easy. It is, of course, a holding cell. Your second question? _Slightly_ more difficult to answer, and we only have fifteen minutes. Fourteen now."

Frustrated, she closed her eyes and clenched her fists on the table in front of her. "Then why am I here? Mycroft said…you wanted to see me?"

The pause was so long that she thought he wasn't going to answer her. Then: "Yes, I _did_. Odd, that…"

He sounded genuinely surprised by the revelation, and her eyes sprang open to fix on him. He was examining his fingers as if they were the most fascinating objects in the entire universe.

"He asked me if I wished to see anyone – anyone at all – and the _only_ name that came out of my mouth at that moment in time was _yours_. Not John or Mary Watson, not Mrs Hudson, not even my own mother." He looked up at her, his eyes wide and curious. "I wonder why that might be? Do you suppose it's because I didn't say goodbye to you last time?"

She felt something icy in her stomach. "Do you… are you planning to say goodbye to me now? For – for how long? Are you going away or -."

He nodded, his eyes on hers, although his voice sounded light and perfectly neutral. "Yes, Molly. I shall be going away. At least -," his mouth twisted into a smirk, "- I anticipate that that will be the outcome. It rather depends on my dear brother's powers of persuasion."

"And…for how long?"

He paused and then brought his pale hands up to rest together underneath his chin, in his 'thinking' manner. He seemed to be observing her, as if trying to deduce her likely reaction.

"Molly, I think you should assume that we will not meet again… Barring a miracle, that is - and I stopped believing in miracles a _very_ long time ago."

She choked in a breath. "That's – that's _impossible_. You…you always came back. All those months, you _kept_ coming back…"

Her mind was swimming – _not meet again_? Not _ever_? He could only mean one thing… But this was _Sherlock_! A man who was accustomed to overcoming the odds, even coming back from the dead. It was impossible to believe there would ever be an occasion when that wouldn't be the case.

He ran a hand through his untidy hair. "Yes…well, that was always the intention back then. To come back. This time…" He gave an odd little laugh. "Well, let's just say that my brother's game plan has…evolved. This time, it's a one-way journey."

"Mycroft…?" she whispered. _Surely not_? He couldn't _possibly _send his own brother to his death…could he?

"He has no choice."

"But _surely_ you don't have to do as he says?" she exclaimed. "Couldn't you run away – hide from him? If _anyone_ could, it would be you."

"It was _always_ his game." He sounded not so much put out as resigned. "Always _his _game – never mine. No matter how far I travelled, no matter how many pieces I played on his 'board'." He laughed again, very softly. "I could travel to the other side of the world, and it would never be far enough to escape my _dear_ brother. Did you ever wonder about the drugs?" he added, suddenly, looking up at her. "Of _course_ you wondered. _That_ was escape too, in a way…but still he found me. I didn't know it back then, of course. Still, it makes no difference now."

"_Tell me_. _Please_, Sherlock. I have to know. What did you do?"

There were warm tears running down her cheeks, she could feel them, although she hadn't realised that she'd started crying. Embarrassed, she wiped her face dry with the backs of her hands. Glancing at her, he stood abruptly and moved away, perhaps bothered by the show of emotion.

"I made a decision to end a person's life. I shot them 'in cold blood', as the phrase goes." He paced, giving her the facts in clear, concise details, rather like a lecturer. "That, in itself, was not the _crucial _decision – well, it _was_, but… my _decision_ was to carry out the act publicly. In front of my brother, in front of John, in front of – well, probably a fair proportion of the Secret Services. I could have killed him secretly; could have dedicated myself to finding a way through his defences to assassinate him in such a way that his death could never have been traced to me. It would have been possible. I did not."

"Why not?" She was amazed at her lack of reaction to his revelation – surely she should be horrified that he admitted to being a cold-blooded murderer?

He paused in his pacing, still not looking at her. "Some things need to be _seen_ to be done. If I hadn't killed him publicly, suspicion would have fallen on…" He smiled slightly. "Well, that's not important now. It's done. I'm not sorry he is dead – it was the right decision. The world is better off without him."

"That's…quite a claim to make about a person," she commented, carefully.

"Please don't bring _morality_ into this, Molly. Let's just accept that you don't know the full facts here. A man is dead. It is _right_ that he is dead." He paused. "He had already made countless lives unbearable; he would have owned the lives of people I… and I _couldn't_… I couldn't…." For the first time, he seemed visibly distressed, lifting a shaking hand to cover his mouth for a moment. "I…took on a responsibility, I made a vow and I had to…"

He stopped again, his back partly turned towards her. With a sense of calm she didn't know she could possess, she stood and walked over to him.

He didn't move when she placed a trembling hand on his shoulder. "It's alright, Sherlock," she whispered, not knowing whether she was trying to reassure him or herself. "It's alright," she repeated, in the face of the knowledge lying between that it quite clearly _wasn't_ alright, would _never_ be alright, ever again. Dropping her hot face against his shirt, she wept again. The tears ran down her cheeks, soaking into the shirt over his shoulder-blade. He didn't respond in any way although he must have been able to sense them. She had the strange sense that she was crying _for_ him - that she was taking on the burden of emotions that he could not, or would not, reveal - and that he _knew _that and understood its necessity.

Whatever the reason, he didn't pull away from her. They stood together for several minutes before she stepped away, wiping her face. He turned to her, his face appearing quite calm if a little paler than normal.

"The most important thing to remember, Molly, is _this_." He took hold of her shoulders, putting his face close to hers. His eyes were dry but his face was strained. "John must _never_ know that the rules of the game have changed. _Do you understand_? He _can't _know that I will never return. Do you understand and do you promise?"

"I…yes, I promise, of course I do, but…" She touched his cheek, timidly – the one she had slapped so violently a few months' ago. "You mentioned miracles…"

His hand lifted to his face and she expected him to push her hand away. Instead, he cupped his own over it, holding it against his cheek as he looked at her. "I haven't believed in miracles since I was eleven years' old."

She felt anger rising in her. This was not _her _Sherlock, this passive man who would follow his brother's instructions to take a course of action that would lead inevitably to his death. His pale eyes flickered over her face, taking in her thoughts in his old familiar way. A slow smile appeared on his face.

"I suppose you might call it a _reckoning_," he murmured. "_My_ 'day of reckoning'. Perhaps it's finally time for me to account for all that I have done over the years, hmm? All the games I played, all the people I hurt?"

She ripped her hand out of his, stepping away to glare up at him. "A reckoning for _what_? For using your talents to save countless lives, for tracking down criminals and getting justice for their victims? What makes you think you need to account for _that_?"

He frowned at her. "You really _believe_ that I always had such noble intentions? You believe that _that _has been the reason for the games I've played, all of these years?"

"For _you_?" She lifted her chin, defiantly. "_Yes_. I don't pretend to understand Mycroft's motivations…but I know _you_, Sherlock. You _do_ care about justice and retribution and all the things that _we_ 'normal people' care about. That was the fundamental difference between you and Jim Moriarty - and _don't _pretend you don't know that. You think that you're a – what is it you call it? – 'high-functioning sociopath', but -."

His eyes narrowed. "I _am_ a high-functioning sociopath. Don't make the fundamental mistake of assuming -."

"_No, you're not_!" she screamed at him. "You are not a sociopath, Sherlock - I don't _care_ about clinical definitions and psychiatrists' reports and all that rubbish - you are _not_!"

She pushed a hand through her hair, turning away from him as tears stung her eyes again. "You – you and your brother have this _crazy_ _stupid i_dea that you're _above _all of us, that you've somehow overcome the 'disadvantages' of emotions and – and caring about people…but look at you _now_. If you didn't _care_, you wouldn't be in this situation. And – and look at the promise you just made me make about John. '_He can't know_'. That's what you said - and I _know_ why you don't want him to know that you…that you're…you're going to die…"

She broke off, gasping for breath. Loud ugly sobs threatened to escape, and she covered her mouth with a fist, biting down on her knuckles as the tears flowed again.

"I know that this is hard for you, Molly -," he began, putting a tentative hand on her shoulder, but she batted it away.

"No, you don't! How _can _you? Not if you're what you say you are – a sociopath wouldn't _care_, would they?" She took a deep breath, trying to control herself. "You don't have the _least_ idea what I'm going through. If you don't love anyone, how can you _possibly _know how it feels to be told that the one person you love more than anyone else in the world is going to walk calmly to their death without the _least_ regret -."

"That's not true."

"_What_?" She scrubbed at her face furiously, wishing she had a handkerchief to blow her nose.

"What you just said." His voice was so quiet, she had to turn to look at him; his eyes were focused on the ground. "You said I had no regrets. That's not true."

As she stared at him, he started fiddling in his pocket. Against the odds, he pulled out a clean handkerchief and presented it to her with a little smile. "Something my guards missed. You look as if you need it more than me."

She gave a shaky laugh as she blew her nose and attempted to tidy up her face. "I'm not normally so…wet. I suppose it's not every day that you're forced to say goodbye to a – a friend who doesn't appear to think he's going to come back this time."

"I _do_ have regrets," he said, not quite meeting her eyes. "I have no desire to leave my life behind. If I could turn the clock back four years – if I could have stopped Moriarty before he even started his little game…" He shrugged. "The truth is, John was right. He said I'd grown too visible, too famous, too…vulnerable, and he was quite right. If it hadn't been Moriarty, it would have been someone else. And then Magnusson came along."

She wiped her nose on his handkerchief again. "But it was…it was fun, wasn't it? For a while?"

"Yes." He gave one of his sudden grins. "It _was_ fun. Especially when John came along."

She held his soggy handkerchief out to him. He gave her a pained look and she smiled sheepishly, tucking it in her pocket.

"I used to be terribly jealous of him," she admitted. "It didn't seem fair – there I was, pining for you, and then along came this man and suddenly you didn't even notice me. Looking back, it all seems ridiculous, but it's how I felt the time." She laughed, a little bitterly. "After all, it's not as if you'd really noticed me before John, anyway."

"Yes, I had." He stepped a little closer to her, and her breath caught at the look in his eyes. "You were wrong about that, too. You said that I don't love anyone, and that's not true."

"I know that you love John," she said, a little uncertainly even as her heart beat faster with the proximity and the intensity of his expression. "I – I don't mean like _that_, but like a – a brother."

He paused. "Yes. I _do_ love John – and Mary too now. But they're not the only ones. And _you_ – you've _always_ mattered, Molly Hooper. I told you that before, but I don't think I realised quite how much…"

His hands came up to cup her face and she stared wonderingly as his face drew nearer. It seemed almost like a dream as he hesitated, his eyes focusing on her lips to make his intent plain, before dipping his head and capturing her mouth with his.

It was an odd first kiss, not cold but tentative, and quite chaste. She had the impression that he was not a particularly experienced kisser; he drew back slightly to examine her face before leaning in again to kiss her more forcefully. This time, she unfroze enough to stand on tiptoe to meet him, her hands coming up to grab his head, her fingers tangling in his hair. She tried to relax into the kiss, but he remained nervous, in fact, almost frantic… After a minute or so, she pulled back, framing his face with her hands to look at his face.

His eyes were closed and his breath came a little quickly. As she continued to watch him, his eyes opened, their shade very blue as he looked at her. He opened his mouth, but no words came out – for once, he appeared not to know what to say.

"Sherlock…" She drew her right hand gently down his jaw and brushed her fingertips over his lips, intending to soothe. His eyes flickered closed again, but then he grabbed her hand, stilling the motion and holding it against his lips.

"Sherlock," she whispered, again, but the moment had passed. She could tell by the cooler, more composed way in which he looked at her when he opened his eyes again, although he brushed a kiss very gently over her fingers before he lowered her hand.

They stared at one another in silence for a moment, before she broke it.

"I didn't think -."

"Neither did I," he replied, but his eyes were wary now and she feared the withdrawal that she sensed was coming. "Molly, I can't -."

"_No_." She closed her eyes for a moment. "_Don't _say it. I know what you're going to say, but _please_ don't spoil it, especially when you're going to leave anyway. What difference can it make now?"

"I _have_ to explain." His voice was gentle now, and she hated that tone beyond all others. The sound of gentle regret… She shook her head and tried to turn away, avoiding the hurtful words.

"Molly, no - _wait_."

He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her tight against him, trying to stop her from moving away. Her ear was pressed against his chest and she could hear his heart beating fast. For a moment, she wanted to bury her face in his shoulder and ignore the words, but her traitorous ears forced her to hear them anyway.

"You were right about me. I _do_ care…but also I - I _can't_. I can't afford to. Look what happens when I let someone in. They become a victim too. John was _my_ victim. Caring about him made him my weakness, and nearly cost him his life. Mary too."

"You can't stop me loving you," she whispered into his shoulder.

He paused, his arms going around her, holding her to him, almost fiercely. "I know. I'm selfish enough not to want to, even though it'll mean a lifetime of misery. Even if I _do_ believe in miracles, even if I _do_ somehow manage to return… The unselfish part of me wishes I could see you in love with someone else. _Happy _Molly, with a happy husband and happy children… I wish that more than anything. The point is -," he held her back by her shoulders, peering at her face. "- I can't focus on you. Now, more than ever, I need to be alone – in _here_." He tapped the side of his head. "Do you see?"

"I know – I understand. I _do_ understand." She blew out a long breath and stepped back from him, trying to calm herself. "How long do we have left now?"

"You have had twenty-two minutes and forty seconds."

She started at Mycroft's voice in the room, just behind her. She tried to turn, but Sherlock took her hands in an iron grip. Looking over her shoulder at his brother, he nodded briefly as if in reply to a silent question, before focusing on her again.

"Molly, I want you to remember what I've told you. I have to be alone now, but always remember that you were _right_ about me. And that you _did_ – you _do_ – count. And… please look after John and Mary for me. They'll need you more than ever soon, especially John."

Staring up at him, she opened her mouth to speak but found that words had deserted her. She couldn't say goodbye. It was as simple as that. The words dried up in her mouth before they could even form properly.

His eyes softened in understanding, and he leaned forward to place a light kiss on her forehead before letting go of her hands and stepping right back.

"Miss Hooper." Mycroft was at her shoulder now and he touched her elbow very gently. "You need to leave now."

Sherlock, she saw, had turned his head away slightly and was staring at the floor. He seemed to suggest by his body language that he had already withdrawn from their meeting – whether to make the parting easier for her or because he really had zoned out, she couldn't tell. She took a deep breath and backed away, letting her eyes linger on him for as long as she could before she was forced to turn away and step through the door.

She refused to look at either of the guards or at Mycroft as she was escorted through the outer room and into the corridor. Sherlock's brother was a barely-regarded presence as she walked back up the corridor and into the lift.

"If it helps at all," she heard him say heavily. "He has broken my heart too."

"It doesn't help," she replied tersely, as the lift moved downward.

He made no reply, merely standing back as she walked into the car park and giving quiet instructions to his driver. It appeared that he would not be accompanying her home and, for that, she could be grateful. She needed solitude and the privacy of the car's dark interior in which to weep.


	16. Chapter 16

**This is a kinda weird chapter - feels 'bitty' with some very different moods in it, but I couldn't seem to split it up in any way.**

**Usual disclaimers apply, and there's also a teeny tiny quote from one of John Donne's poems, so teeny that you probably won't notice it.**

**Oh, and I mean no disrespect to New Zealand - honest!**

* * *

**Chapter 16**

She carried on.

She had to. There was a job to do, units to study, friends to keep pacified. For the next few days, she plastered a smile on her face for the sake of her colleagues. At night, she collapsed into her bed exhausted, but still lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling. She grew sallow from lack of sleep, her eyes dark-ringed. And still…she carried on.

She heard nothing from – or _of _– Sherlock. It was as if he had already disappeared off the face of the earth. She didn't dare contact the Watsons or Mrs Hudson, so she had no idea what they had or hadn't been told. Sherlock had implied that John at least was being kept in the dark about what was really happening and she was afraid of letting something slip. Greg hadn't been in touch either, but when she saw Sally Donavan in passing in the morgue one day, the DS told her he was out of town, providing consultancy on some murder case that had the Hertfordshire Constabulary baffled. Since this was precisely the type of thing that suited Sherlock down to the ground, she wondered whether Greg had tried to contact him and had been given some kind of excuse by Mycroft.

She often sat looking down at her phone, Sherlock's number on the screen, wondering what would happen if she pressed the call button… but then, it was unlikely he'd been allowed to keep his phone. She composed text after text that she never sent.

_Are you OK? I wish I could be with you._

_I miss you already. Will you miss me?_

_I love you. _

_I want you._

Even if she had any confidence that he had his phone, she didn't know if she would have the confidence to send them. Sherlock was not likely to respond well to messages of love. In fact, the kiss, the confession of love…they now seemed like a dream; something she had wanted for so long and so much that she had somehow brought it into existence. Something without foundation. She feared that if she ever set eyes on him again, he would merely look at her with his old, cold-hearted objectivity.

If only she could _see_ him again, be reassured by his reactions. It wasn't even chiefly physical intimacy that she craved; she just _needed_ to see his face, hear his voice, to know that she hadn't imagined the emotion in his eyes.

She relived that moment - that kiss - a thousand times. The brief press of his lips on hers, his warm breath merging with her own startled exhale, the way he had drawn back and looked at her tentatively as if seeking permission. It didn't seem possible that she could've remembered right – that _that _had really been Sherlock. It seemed so _utterly_ out of character. It was not as if he'd given her the remotest hint of his regard.

Or…had he? She cast her mind back endlessly over the years, trying to pinpoint any sign that she might have missed. She remembered scenarios, re-imagining them as clues. Sherlock's embarrassment when he told John he was sexually attracted to women rather than men – was he thinking of her even then? The way he observed her so carefully – always noting when she had changed her hairstyle, commenting on the green blouse that brought out her eyes – had they _always_ been simply attempts to manipulate her? His cruelty at that Christmas party when he assumed that she was dressing provocatively for a new boyfriend. His apparent jealousy over her friendship (if it could be called that) with Mycroft, and his obvious relief when she made it clear that she had no feelings for his brother. His attempts to reason with her – to tell her that she shouldn't love him because it would only bring her pain…

But then again, the cold, clear voice of reason told her that in each case she could be _entirely _misinterpreting Sherlock. That was the problem with him – you could never be quite sure what he was thinking. You thought you knew him and then…then he sent your world spiralling cruelly in just a few minutes – telling you that this was the final goodbye and then kissing you and saying that he loved you… _Why, Sherlock, why_? she cried out internally. Why _now_, when it's too late? Why not six months ago or even six years ago, when we had world enough and time?

Even when he _had_ kissed her, he had seemed confused by his own behaviour. Agitated, uneasy…almost as if he couldn't believe he had lost control. It occurred to her that he might not have intended to be deliberately cruel. It might simply be the case that he had intended to say a cold, objective goodbye and leave her none the wiser as to his true feelings.

_Or_ _possibly_ \- the nasty little devil on her shoulder kept prodding her – _possibly_ _he's just playing with you again. That kiss, that declaration of love – they're just part of a game plan that you can't even see… Why was Mycroft there, and why didn't he try to stop Sherlock?_

And so she continued to toss and turn, unrested, her mind whirring through all the possibilities in an unending downward spiral.

She had texted Mycroft several times, begging for another visit. He didn't answer them and, when she tried to ring his office, he was unavailable. Eventually, she simply asked him to keep her up to date by telling her when Sherlock would be leaving custody and, presumably, going undercover. After an interval of several hours, she eventually received a simple "yes" in reply.

It was six days after New Year when she received the text. She was on her way to work during the morning rush hour.

**Leaving Britain today. MH.**

She read this several times, trying to make the words say something else. Eventually, she sent a reply:

**Can I say goodbye? MH.**

Again, there was a long delay before she received a reply.

**I am sorry, Miss Hooper. MH.**

Taking this response to be an emphatic "no", she didn't persist. She resisted the temptation to throw her phone underfoot and crush it and instead sat looking blankly out of the bus window. When her stop came, she stayed on board, only getting off when the bus terminated. She left the bus stop and wandered unseeingly, not really aware of where she was. Her phone beeped a couple of times, but she didn't look – she knew instinctively it wouldn't be Sherlock or Mycroft trying to get in touch and she didn't care about anyone else.

She found herself walking up the steps into Waterloo Station and staring up at the arrivals and departures board. If _she_ were to disappear from the world, if _she_ were to get on one of those trains right now and just keep going, how many people would notice, or even care? Mum would care, presumably, but how long would it take her to notice? Right now, all her friends – Greg, John, Mike – seemed as remote as the moon. She couldn't even visualise them.

She stood still, frozen by the hypnotic flashing of the screen at it continued to post platform confirmations and update travel statuses. Around her people rushed headlong for trains or to meet people. No one noticed her; she might as well be invisible here. And the possibilities were endless – a train to Poole or Weymouth and then a ferry to Cherbourg or St Malo, a hire car across France. Or perhaps Exeter, and then a flight out of the country from the airport there. Or she could hide herself away in one of those little towns – Ashhurst New Forest, Dawlish Warren – one of those impossibly quaint places that she'd never been to, where no one would think of looking for her…

It was harder than she ever thought possible to square her shoulders and turn away from the board. Quietly, she made her way out of the station and back to the stop to catch the next bus back to Bart's.

* * *

She was very late, but when she arrived, Mike took one look at her face and whatever he saw there was enough for him to tell her very firmly to go straight home again.

Nevertheless, she lingered in the laboratory doorway after he had gone, looking around her. It was the exact same doorway that she had stumbled through, out of breath, sweaty and panicking, six years ago and had seen a tall stranger at the far end of the laboratory. Frustratingly, she couldn't remember the exact date, except that it was sometime near the end of September - and that seemed _wrong_. Wrong that she couldn't remember the exact date, the exact moment she saw him first, when she ought to remember _everything_ about the man. Would she forget him? As the years passed, would the images grow faint – that little crooked half-smile, the way his nose crinkled when he was deep in thought, those large white hands that were oddly delicate, the wild curls, the imperious swish of that coat? Would she forget them; would she even forget that tentative kiss and that expression of bewildered love on his face?

She couldn't stay here – not now. She would hand in her notice, sell her flat, and see if she could transfer the study units she'd already completed to a pathology degree at another institution. Maybe Edinburgh? She'd always loved Scotland. She and Toby could start again there, in a place where no one knew her, where no one would remember the many mistakes she had made in her life. Where she wouldn't have to keep concealing the truth from John; where she wouldn't feel a fresh stab of pain every time she saw one of Sherlock's little 'family'. They'd soon forget her, even Greg.

She walked slowly through the laboratory, into the morgue where she'd stood by on so many occasions, watching the genius working his magic on a mangled corpse. She put her head around the corner of Sherlock's favourite examination room and remembered the experiments with the riding crop. And then she wandered into the little laboratory that she had been in late that night when Sherlock had asked her to help him cheat death…and she remembered the moment that their relationship had changed forever. She had promised him; she had said "anything you need". And he had said "you".

The door to the small office attached to the laboratory was open and at first she thought it was in use, as she heard the tinny sound of voices; after a moment she realised she was hearing a television. There was a small one in there and people often turned it on for a bit during their breaks. She walked over to the door…and stopped dead.

A horribly familiar voice could be heard – a voice that had haunted her nightmares for a long time. "Did you miss me?" it intoned, first in a high voice and then low. It kept repeating the mantra.

She looked at the screen, her dread mounting – and there it was. The familiar, chillingly insane face of James Moriarty.

_Did you miss me?_

* * *

Molly took the stairs two at the time, clutching her bag in one hand and a can of deodorant spray in the other. As weapons went, it was a fairly pathetic one, but she'd grown lax over the years and it was all she had handy.

She stumbled breathlessly onto her landing. Her trembling hands felt for the handle on the front door of her flat. The door felt firm but of course that didn't mean anything… She fumbled with her key to unlock the door and then swung it back, looking fearfully from left to right.

The flat was untouched. A sleepy Toby looked up at her, unharmed and uncomprehending, from his usual perch on the armchair.

Slamming the door, she went through the small flat, still brandishing her spray can and flinging open each door. It was silent and empty, which almost felt worse.

She let out a trembling breath of relief…and then burst into action. Throwing down the spray can, she ran into the bedroom and grabbed her suitcase from the top of the wardrobe. She threw clothes, toiletries and a few keepsakes haphazardly into it. The phone rang at one point; she froze for a moment before ignoring it and carrying on packing.

After a while, it stopped and she heard her mobile ringing in her bag. She zipped up the suitcase, carried it into the lounge and looked down at Toby, irresolute.

She had to get away and as quickly as possible. _He_ was alive; Sherlock had been wrong, he'd been alive all along and _he knew where she lived_. She stared despairingly at her cat, now fast asleep again. How could she possibly go on the run with a pet in tow?

Another horrible thought occurred. What about Mum? She didn't _think_ she'd ever told 'Jim from IT' where her mother lived, but he'd probably find out anyway if he wanted to.

In the end, she wrote a note for one of her downstairs neighbours, a pleasant young woman, saying she'd had to leave suddenly and begging her to take Toby in and feed him until she could get back. She put this in an envelope along with her spare key and fifty pounds in notes, and shoved it in her coat pocket to post through the woman's door as she went out.

Well, she couldn't go to Mum, nothing more dangerous, but there was something she _could _do. She retrieved her mobile to phone Greg, noting as she did so that there was one missed call from him.

She dialled the familiar number; he answered immediately. "Greg?"

"Molly, _thank God_. I'm on my way." Greg's voice was calm despite his obvious relief at the sound of her voice – utterly professional and focused. "Are you at the flat? Stay right where you are."

"Greg – Moriarty…"

"_Yes_, I know, I saw it too. Everyone did – it was on every TV in the country. You're OK, Molly. _Just stay there_. We're two minutes' away."

Even as she disconnected, she could hear the far-off sirens of a police car.

* * *

The 'war summit', as Molly termed it, was held in 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock and Mycroft sat in the armchairs, glaring at each other, were clearly the leading combatants, the human equivalents of Russia and the USA. John and Mary were on the sofa off to the side as minor but still valuable nations, and Greg was roughly the equivalent of New Zealand. He was standing in the kitchen, snapping some instructions down his phone even as he kept casting unsure glances at the brothers. Mrs Hudson lurked near the door, fiddling nervously with her beads. Molly wasn't quite which nations she and the landlady represented. Probably the Channel Islands in terms of their importance to Sherlock and Mycroft.

She had brought her suitcase with her. She had no idea whether or not she would be going back to her flat and it seemed best to be prepared. She leaned against the companionway between the kitchen and the lounge, watching the summit, which seemed to be a battle of wills between Sherlock and his older brother.

Greg finished his call and wandered over. "There's an officer with your mum now. We've got her on twenty-four hour surveillance, but I'm sure it'll be alright. I don't think he'd threaten her anyway."

He positioned himself next to her against the wall, his hand seeking hers for a momentary squeeze of reassurance. She clasped his warm comforting fingers, her eyes still on Sherlock. He was shaking his head vigorously at one of Mycroft's comments and his eyes flickered to her briefly, taking in the hand-holding with no obvious change of expression.

Indeed, he'd hardly looked at her since she'd arrived. Just a quick, impersonal glance in her direction as she came in, while snapping at Mycroft. It was John who had stood up and come over to give her an unexpected hug, while Mrs Hudson fussed around her, offering her a cup of tea. Sherlock didn't seem to notice that, either. There was no sign of the emotional, confused man she had encountered in that prison cell. This man was completely calm and cool, apparently unfazed by Moriarty's sudden reappearance.

She gave Greg's hand a final quick squeeze before letting it go and tuning back into the conversation.

"_No_," Sherlock was still shaking his head. "It's preposterous. Of course that's not Moriarty. I should know – I saw him die. It's a trick."

"How do you _know_ it was him on the roof?" Mycroft challenged. "What if it was a look-a-like, being fed lines by Moriarty?"

"No, no." Sherlock shook his head again. "I looked into that man's eyes. You can change a man's appearance completely, modulate his voice, his mannerisms, but you _can't_ disguise his eyes. I looked into those eyes and I _saw_ the insanity there."

"He _would_ be insane though, wouldn't he, whoever he was?" broke in John. "To do what he did – blow his own brains out. Doesn't mean he's Moriarty, does it?"

Sherlock paused, seeming to consider this. Molly's eyes moved to the sofa where the Watsons sat close together. She noticed immediately that there was more warmth there than the last time she had seen them; they sat close enough to support each other physically. Mary was looking the floor her face pale and her hand on her bulging abdomen. She seemed frightened.

"Actually, John may have a point," Mycroft put in.

"Don't be so _obtuse_, Mycroft!" his brother snapped. He had been texting on his phone and now he shoved his mobile in his pocket and leaned back, rubbing his face. "You know _perfectly_ well that Moriarty's dead. Don't tell me you didn't make _damned_ sure of it after my fall."

"What happened to his body afterwards?" asked Molly. As two sets of Holmes' eyes fixed themselves on her, she hastened to add, "I mean, I never knew. I don't even know who brought it down from the roof or who carried out the autopsy, and what happened after."

"The body was never found," Mycroft told her, completely blank-faced. A snort from Sherlock told her what he thought about that.

"Oh! Well, I suppose I _was_ a bit busy at the time faking Sherlock's death certificate," she said, a little guiltily.

"_Wasn't _it ever found? I didn't know that." John leaned forward looking confused; his wife winced a little as she shifted uncomfortably on the couch.

"You were a bit preoccupied at the time," Greg pointed out, drily. "Though, come to that, I don't think _I _knew either. I mean, someone told me that 'Rich Brook' had been found dead and it looked like suicide." He frowned. "I think I just assumed…"

"You were _meant_ to." Mycroft gave him an irritated look. "You weren't supposed to think about it at all. What did you suppose all the 'Suicide of Fake Genius' headlines were in aid of? To divert attention from the fact that a children's television actor had _also_ apparently committed suicide. Not that the newspapers had the full story about how he died."

"_Was_ he dead?" Molly said, suddenly.

"Molly, _please_…" Sherlock growled, threateningly.

"No, _really_," she interrupted. "_Was_ he? It wasn't some kind of elaborate stunt with lots of fake blood, was it? Did you check his pulse?"

"It _wasn't_ fake," Sherlock insisted.

"I can assure you, Miss Hooper, that the body removed from the roof of Bart's was most _certainly_ deceased," Mycroft told her, smoothly.

"_What_ body? _What_ roof?" Greg said, cheerfully, earning himself a glare from both brothers at once.

"Oh dear…" Mrs Hudson quavered nervously. "All this talk about bodies… I think I'll go and fetch some biscuits, if anyone would like one?"

"Yes, you just go and do that, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said, meaningfully. He continued as her steps faded down the stairs. "She hasn't got any left in the flat, so it'll take a while."

"_Sherlock_," John muttered. "What if she gets into trouble going out? If he's out there somewhere…"

"Don't be dense. In the first place, this is _not_ Moriarty as he is most definitely dead, and in any case what makes you think '_he'd_' go after her now?"

"He threatened her before -."

"_No_ – what I meant was, why _now_? When he could have picked her off at any point during the last four years if he felt like it? The risk is also exactly the same for you and Greg as it was yesterday or the day before – as it'll be tomorrow. No." Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin and closed his eyes. "No, _this_ individual has a _different_ plan..."

"Sounds as if you needn't have bothered with the suitcase," Greg murmured to Molly. She nodded her assent. It certainly didn't seem that Sherlock was all that concerned for her safety – and she presumed, or rather hoped, that he would be if there was a genuine risk.

"I'm not so sure about _that_." Mycroft gave Molly a considering frown. "Whoever this person is, he undoubtedly knows by now that Miss Hooper aided my brother in his little stunt. Whether or not he cares about her role is another matter."

"Or _she_," muttered Sherlock, his eyes still closed.

Mycroft looked back at his brother quickly. "You think so? This has all the hallmarks of a man."

Sherlock smiled slowly. "Or of a woman who knows how to pose as a man."

The brothers looked at each other for a long moment, while John and Mary shifted uneasily. Molly had the impression that they were having an entire conversation using just their eyes. Mycroft looked keenly interested and Sherlock smug.

Eventually, Mycroft leaned back. "Well, of _course_ you knew all along. I should have guessed." There was a note of grudging admiration in his voice.

"I'm surprised you _didn't_." Sherlock smirked at his brother. "I thought you _might_ have realised that _I_ was the one who saved her life. Who else, after all?"

"Who indeed." Mycroft gave him a speculative look. "And I suppose you have seen her since?"

"You suppose wrong. I have not seen her since Pakistan." Sherlock's expression of superiority faded to be replaced by a frown. "But _I_ should've guessed sooner. After all, when Moriarty died, she had to have _someone_ to sell her secrets to. And who better than Magnussen?"

"Magnussen? You mean the media tycoon – the one who just died of an apparent heart attack?" Greg stepped forward, frowning at Sherlock. "What's _he_ got to do with anything?"

Mycroft gave him a coolly dismissive glance. "Detective Inspector, you surely have _other_ duties today? Common criminals to apprehend and so on?"

It was a clear dismissal. Molly expected Greg to lose his cool and walk out, as had happened so often in the past, so she was surprised when the DI returned the older Mr Holmes' icy gaze with one just as cool. "_No_. I _don't_. Not when _he_ starts talking about a man who died in circumstances that even _I _can tell are mysterious. Don't bother giving me that heart attack crap either."

Judging by the way Mycroft blinked, he hadn't been expecting that either.

Sherlock threw Greg a mildly amused glance. "It'd take too long to explain now – John will fill you in later. For now, suffice it to say that Magnussen is dead and…" his voice slowed a little, as if he was thinking something through as he spoke, "…and his death appears to have set off a chain of events. This was the first – just a warning at this stage…"

"So, let's just get something _absolutely _clear -," John leaned forward. "_This_ – whatever it is – is _not_ Moriarty?"

"Look John, for heaven's sake -."

"_John_!" Molly interrupted, speaking loudly over Sherlock. "_John_ – look at her -."

Mary was leaning right over, clutching her stomach with an agonised grimace on her white face.

"Mary? What is it – _shit_!" John knelt in front of her, peering at her face. "It's the baby! It's coming! Isn't it? Why didn't you say something?"

"You – seemed…" she gasped out, "- kind of – busy…"

"Right. OK then. Fine." For all his medical credentials, John seemed as panicky as any father-to-be as he looked around wildly. Mycroft stood up, for once looking a little alarmed.

"Oh, calm down, John," Sherlock said smoothly, still leaning back in his seat quite casually. "I've been timing the contractions. You have _plenty_ of time."

"_Why didn't you bloody say so_?" John shouted.

"_No, I bloody haven't_!" his wife added, glaring up at the consulting detective, her fair hair sticking to her forehead.

"Well, according to the Internet -."

"For _Christ's sake_, Sherlock, not all babies come in the same way and at the same time," Greg interrupted. "There are some things that you can't just read up on."

He pushed his way past Molly towards the sofa. He 'accidentally' elbowed Mycroft aside as he did so, making the pompous civil servant collapse back into his armchair with a surprised _oomph_. The DI knelt down next to John. "It may surprise you to learn this, but I've made a few emergency deliveries in my time. You'd be surprised how often women give birth in cars in stationary traffic in London."

"No, I _wouldn't_! Anyway, she's not giving birth _here_!" John looked around in horror. "God alone knows what unhygienic experiments _he's_ been up to recently."

"Mrs Watson, if I can be of assistance, I would be delighted to convey you to a facility of your choice," Mycroft said smoothly, although he sounded rather pained at the prospect. He was probably contemplating Mary's waters breaking or, even worse, the precipitate arrival of a squalling infant on his plush back seat.

"No need." Sherlock held up his mobile, an ill-concealed expression of triumph on his face, just as someone hammered on the door downstairs. "The ambulance is already here."


	17. Chapter 17

**Dear reviewers, I am really sorry it takes me so long to update this fic. It's so difficult to find the time when you're a mum and a full-time worker, especially at this time of year. I can entirely understand why my friend Benfan has decided to take a step back for a while. And of course I'm foolish enough to be writing to multi-chapter fics at the same time!**

**Also, for me it is SO important to get my characters right. I'm taking Sherlock right out of his stereotypical image from now on, and I **_**absolutely**_** have to be happy with what I do to him. I can't make him behave in a completely out-of-character way; that would bother me and I wouldn't be happy with the story I was delivering. Yes, I really **_**do**_** feel that level of responsibility to you as well as to the characters we love so much.**

**So while I do appreciate that for some of you it may be massively annoying that there's such a gap between chapters and I really wish that I could promise to update sooner, I don't know that I can deliver on that promise. If you find it frustrating, I wouldn't blame you for not reading on until the fic is finished - I often do that myself with people's longer fics. I can only say that I will do my best...**

**Ok, on with the story! Another complication is that this was one of those chapters that I eventually split into two, so the next chapter is already half written.**

* * *

Chapter 17

"When did you call 999?" Molly asked, curiously.

The ambulance had departed with Mary and John on board and Greg providing a police escort, even though the paramedics had patiently assured both John and Greg several times that the baby's arrival really _wasn't_ that imminent. Molly was amused by the degree to which John's medical qualifications appeared to desert him at that moment; she assumed he'd done at least one Obstetrics rotation as a medical student, but it didn't seem like it. Meanwhile, Greg seemed rather disappointed that he wouldn't have to make an emergency delivery after all.

Sherlock's air of superiority when his view had been confirmed by the experts was clearly so unbearable to his brother that Mycroft had departed almost immediately afterwards.

As he had collected his umbrella from the corner by the door, he had murmured to Molly, "Do not go home tonight, Miss Hooper. I will assess the risk and contact you. You should be safe here at Baker Street, but if I feel you are not, I shall make alternative arrangements."

Not knowing whether to be relieved or irritated that he was making decisions for her, she had thanked him rather coldly and watched him go down the stairs.

Sherlock was now lying on the sofa, his eyes closed. She wondered whether he'd heard her and was about to go into the kitchen when he suddenly replied.

"Texted Billy and told him to ring for an ambulance."

She laughed, walking over to him. "I wondered if you were texting someone! So _you_ noticed her behaviour too. I had thought I was the only one."

"Of course. Obvious." He opened his eyes, looking up at her, and there was something a little wary in them. At first, she feared it was rejection, but then she realised that _he_ was the one fearing _her_ reaction.

A strained silence fell between them. She was dismayed by this new tension. Even in the early days of their strange acquaintance, when he was more insulting to her than anything else, at least they'd always had _something_ to say to one another. Now he seemed unsure. It was an emotion that seemed alien in him; she preferred the Sherlock she knew and loved – confident to the point of arrogance.

It also confused her that he seemed unable to deduce her current mood…but then she remembered his claim that he found certain emotions hard to decipher. She had a sense that he was trying to find a way of saying something, but didn't quite know how to put it.

She suddenly realised why he was hesitating. "You need to be alone, right now, don't you? To think through this Moriarty situation, or whoever it is?"

His expression cleared. "You understand?"

"Of _course_, why wouldn't I?" she asked, perplexed, and then it came to her. "_Oh_! You thought that I expected – that because of what happened between us, I expected you to change?"

A quick look at his face confirmed that that was _exactly_ what he had expected.

She shook her head, trying to repress her automatic smile on the grounds that he might be offended if he thought she was laughing at him. "Look, it's OK, Sherlock. It's _me_ – it's not like I don't know you. When we – um, last time we met, you said you needed to be alone in your head. I can't pretend to really understand how it works, but I know what you need." She hesitated, before continuing a little tentatively. "We _do_ need to talk… but it can wait. Only I, er, I don't much fancy going outside by myself, just in case – _you_ know. Um, would it bother you very much if I moved my stuff into John's old bedroom?"

She flushed, quite ridiculously in the circumstances – after all, she wasn't asking to share his bed or anything, and _he_ had stayed in _her_ flat enough times.

He nodded quickly, looking a little flushed himself. "Of course. Feel free."

She hesitated, looking at him, but he wouldn't meet her eyes, staring off into the distance and looking extremely uncomfortable. He seemed confused by her reappearance in his life… This was _not_ what she had hoped for from a reunion after their last meeting, but it seemed to reinforce her suspicion that he really _had_ not expected to see her ever again and had therefore seized the opportunity to open his heart for once. Having done that, he was – quite genuinely – unsure where to go from here, apparently not having any experience at all with relationships. And then, on top of that, there was this new threat and he needed to be able to focus…

She was tempted to kiss the worried frown off his forehead, but she didn't know how he'd react to sudden displays of affection, so she simply smiled again. "Thank you."

He gave her another startled look (_what had he been expecting from her – hysterics_?) and then lay back down again, closing his eyes. Sensing that she was unlikely to hear anything else from him, she suppressed a sigh and looked over at her suitcase. She didn't much fancy lugging it up the additional staircase to John's room, but it didn't look as if there was much option.

John's old room was up on the top floor – truthfully, it was a converted attic room and Mrs Hudson had been lucky to get away with describing the flat as 'two bedroomed'. It stood alone on the top landing, a small room with a ceiling that slanted at either end. It was just as well that John and she were fairly short – the thought of Sherlock permanently risking his head on the low ceiling made her smile.

She recalled that Mrs Hudson had said John had continued to sleep there from time to time, so she was not really surprised to see that the bed was neatly made up, almost military-style with the precisely cornered sheets. Apart from that, there was very little to the room – simply a single bed, a heavy-looking old fashioned wardrobe, a chest of drawers that didn't match the wardrobe, a small bedside table and some cheap-looking bookshelves, which were empty. There were no personal touches – she could only suppose that John had moved all his possessions out, keeping only the basics here for ad hoc overnight stays.

She bit her lip as she looked around her. She'd never had occasion to visit this part of the flat before, and she couldn't help wondering how John had ever been comfortable in this rather dreary little room. She had a suspicion that he was the type of man who didn't much care where he slept as long as it was reasonably comfortable – a hangover from his military days, perhaps? He'd always made the common living areas of the flat look welcoming…but then she didn't necessarily _know_ that that was down to John. She'd probably just assumed it was, on the grounds that Sherlock was about as un-domestic a creature as it was possible to be…but then, after all, it wasn't mere _cleanliness _that made 221B so attractive. It was more a rather ramshackle charm – and Sherlock appeared to have the ability to make any space look oddly attractive, just as long as you had a strong stomach for body parts, which Molly did.

Anyway, it didn't look as if John had slept in here for a while – the room had a distinctly un-lived-in feel about it. The room smelt musty and was freezing cold. Looking around, she spotted an electric heater and switched it on. It wasn't ideal, but then she might not have to be here long, and she'd slept in worst places.

Although the bed looked neatly made up, it was possible that John had slept in it since the sheets were last changed, so she stripped the bed. Finding nowhere obvious to put dirty linen, she piled it up in a corner of the room then ventured downstairs to find replacements. Sherlock was lying motionless on the couch and she didn't like to disturb him in his mind palace or whatever it was that he called it, so she tiptoed past him in her search for clean laundry without much hope or expectation.

Actually, things weren't as bad as she had feared. There was a sizeable laundry cupboard just outside the bathroom and, whether by Mrs Hudson's benevolent hand or by John's practical nature, it was miraculously full of clean, fresh-smelling linen and towels. She grabbed what she needed and hurried back up the stairs, stopping briefly in the kitchen to locate furniture polish and a duster. Once she'd cleaned around a bit and got rid of the musty smell, made up the bed, unpacked her suitcase and laid her few personal belongings out, the room didn't look so bad. The heater had warmed it up nicely and she could see how it might be possible to make it into a cosy little room with a few simple changes – a rug, some pictures to cover the 1970s-era wallpaper, and so on.

It had probably been a bit silly to have unpacked everything – after all, she might only be here one night… and possibly not even _that_, if Mycroft sensed an immediate threat to her safety. Although, frankly, she'd already made up her mind that she wouldn't be leaving Baker Street tonight _whatever_ Sherlock's bossy brother decreed. She felt about as safe here as anywhere. It was probably foolish to feel so confident, but she was certain that Sherlock could (and would) protect her from any attack.

She lingered in the room, a little uncertainly. It was early evening and she'd had nothing to eat and very little to drink since breakfast. She felt like a stranger in this flat, or an unwelcome gate-crasher – not that Sherlock would be inclined to kick her out; even at his meanest of times, he'd never actually meant her any _genuine_ harm, but still… In theory, he should _want _her around – shouldn't he? - if he loved her. At this moment in time, she was not so sure, for all the bravado of her words downstairs.

And what did he mean by love anyway? Merely that he cared about her in the same way he cared about John? The kiss would suggest that his feelings went deeper than that…although, she reflected with a familiar tinge of discomfort, was Sherlock actually _capable _of loving someone more than he loved John? Not that it was anything other than platonic, but if Molly had ever believed in the dubious concept of soul mates, she had the perfect illustration right there in front of her. Abstractly, she wondered whether Mary had ever been jealous of her husband's closeness to his friend.

She fiddled with the new duvet cover a little absently as she mused. It was high-count cotton and felt expensive even to her inexperienced fingers, and she suddenly realised it probably belonged to Sherlock rather than to John, who would have moved the majority of his linen out.

She looked down at the crisp white cover doubtfully. It was just the same as Sherlock's other personal possessions. Expensive suits, fine silk shirts, fountain pens, that coat… She remembered that Christmas a few years' ago, when she'd struggled to think of a present for him. The special present she'd created and had been so pleased with had never been claimed by him; by then, she supposed he'd been distracted by other matters. More important matters. And her discomfort increased.

The point was…well, the point _was_, what could _she_ possibly offer _him_? Sherlock had _everything_ – money, influence, charm and good looks, his extraordinary brain. What could he possibly need – or even want - from her? She'd always felt inferior to him in pretty much every way, but it hadn't mattered back then, when she'd assumed that she was no more than a handily-placed pathologist, or even later, when she could legitimately claim to be one of his few friends.

She glanced down at her cheap blouse and dowdy cardigan, and then at her rough hands and scruffy nails, bitten short with nerves. It wasn't as if Sherlock seemed to care what she looked like…but then why would he? It might be different if she was more than just a friend – if she was his…girlfriend. Partner. Whatever. Against her will, she remembered Janine, sleek and glowing in her bridesmaid dress…and then she had a vision of the shining dark hair, gleaming white skin and polished nails of a beautiful woman on the gurney in the morgue. The only women she had ever known Sherlock to show the remotest interest in. Both of them tall, glamorous, dark-haired beauties – the perfect match…

"Molly!"

She jumped so violently that she nearly hit her head on the sloping ceiling. Sherlock's voice sounded so close that she half expected him to be standing in the doorway, but in fact he was at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at her curiously as she peered over the landing.

"Are you planning on staying up there all evening? How long does it take to unpack?"

"Oh. Um – I was just coming down," she lied.

He seemed completely different to earlier – utterly focused and full of energy. He even bounced on the balls of his feet as he carried on: "There's something I need you to do."

"OK." She hurried down the stairs and followed him back into the lounge. "Actually, I was just going to see about something to eat."

He gave her a briefly uncomprehending look over his shoulder before his expression cleared. "Oh yes. Of course – you haven't eaten all day. Only had a small breakfast and was feeling too tense to eat any lunch. Get a takeaway – stack of leaflets over there, anything you like. My wallet's in my coat."

He waved nonchalantly in the relevant directions before sitting down at the table again. She noticed that his laptop was in front of him.

"Um – did you want something too?"

He was frowning at something on his screen and gave no indication that he had heard her.

Oh well…she recalled John saying once that he normally ordered enough for two. If Sherlock was in the mood, he'd pick at some of it; if he wasn't, John would heat up the leftovers for himself in the microwave the following day. He'd also told her that Sherlock was significantly more inclined to eat at the end of a case rather than in the middle of one, which suggested that he wouldn't do so tonight.

She also found a few more clues in the pile of takeaway leaflets pinned to the noticeboard in the kitchen. Some were distinctly better used than others, notably the Chinese and Thai ones, and in one of the Chinese menus, she found various scribbles. Some of the order numbers were heavily circled and John had written 'S' next to a few of them – she took these to be specific foods that Sherlock appeared to be partial to. She knew that John, in his quiet way, had often tried to improve his flatmate's calorie intake, and it looked as if he'd identified the meals that Sherlock might be most tempted by.

She phoned the takeaway and ordered enough for two just to be on the safe side, picking some of Sherlock's favourites as well as her own. As she disconnected the call, she moved over to Sherlock's distinctive long wool coat, which was hung just inside his bedroom door. She had been in here before, albeit only occasionally and usually while delivering something particularly disgusting from Bart's that John had refused to have in the living/kitchen area. For some reason, she always expected the room to be an absolute tip, but Sherlock was surprisingly meticulous in keeping his bedroom clean and tidy. It was probably in part due to Mrs Hudson and her reliable vacuum cleaner, but it was interesting that his bedroom, like John's, had an oddly un-lived-in look about it.

She searched and found his wallet, pulling out a couple of notes before stopping dead. "Er – Sherlock…?"

"What?" He looked around and saw the foreign notes in her hand. "Oh, yes, of course…"

He crossed over to the bookcase near the window, pulled out a book apparently at random and shook it violently. A number of ten and twenty pound notes fluttered out from between the pages and he caught them deftly before pushing the book back in its place.

She looked curiously at the currency in her hand. The notes contained Cyrillic text. "What are they?"

He took the wallet from her hand, tipping the unfamiliar notes out of it and substituting his British money. "Ukrainian hryvnia." Rather to her surprise, he gathered the foreign currency together and placed it inside the pages of another book, also apparently selected at random.

"Is – is that where you were going then?"

He grimaced as he thrust a couple of UK notes in her direction. "At first, anyway." He saw her eyes turn towards the bookshelf. "I keep a number of currencies in specific locations around the flat. Can be very useful if you have to go abroad quickly and need hard cash."

"I should have thought dollars or travellers' cheques -," she began, but he shook his head.

"Not if you want to fit in. Dollars can be good for bribes, but otherwise they mark you as an outsider. Talking of which…that's exactly what _you_ are."

"An outsider?" she asked, as he took her hand and pulled her over towards the laptop. The gesture was unusually gentle for him.

"Yes. I have my suspicions, but they need to be confirmed. And _you_ are the one to do it."

She resisted his pull very slightly. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?" Was it her imagination, or did he sound a little wary?

She stopped, so he had to turn towards her. She swallowed, summoning all her courage to meet his eyes directly. "I – I'm very glad you couldn't go after all. Even if it means that there must be more danger to this country… I know that's selfish, but I – I can't help it… Being with you, even if it's dangerous… I would much rather have _that_ than – than the alternative..."

For a moment, she thought he would turn away again looking embarrassed, as he had earlier. Instead, he held her gaze for a long moment. She felt her heart beat speed up as she saw the same expression as on that day – a look of extreme emotion coupled with bewilderment. So she hadn't imagined it after all…

"I'm glad too," he said, softly. For a moment, he seemed to sway a little nearer and his eyes dropped to her lips…but then he shook himself and stepped back slightly.

He ran a hand through his hair and spoke almost harshly, sounding frustrated. "I don't know the 'rules'. There _are_ rulesto these things, aren't there? What women expect and so on." He waved his hands about, speaking in a high, affected voice. "By rights, I should forget about the current threat – I should _want_ to forget about it and concentrate on _you_…shouldn't I?"

He turned away, biting his lip as he paced restlessly across the room to the window and back. "_If_ I love you…" he went on, speaking very slowly. "If I am _in love _with you, nothing else should matter. I know all there is to know about the _science_ of the emotion - adrenaline, dopamine, serotonin… In theory, I shouldn't care about the case right now… but I _do_, and it stops me focusing on you. What does that say about _me_ – _us_?"

He paused in his pacing to give her an apologetic look – genuine for once.

"Sherlock – wait -." She grabbed his arm to stop him pacing away again, and he stopped immediately, facing her. After a moment's pause, she lifted a hand to his cheek, touching it very gently as if trying to soothe a wild animal. He didn't stop her or step away, but neither did he lean into the caress. He was observing her carefully, as if trying to ascertain her feelings.

She felt surprisingly calm, considering the fact that he had admitted to being 'in love' with her for the first time, rather than simply loving her, an emotion that could easily be platonic. He'd never said so before, not in so many words, and somehow it always felt as if the words should be shouted out, or whispered passionately in the middle of an intense kiss, something like that.

In fact, now she thought about it, it was the first time that _anyone_ had told her they were in love with her. With Tom, it had just been assumed, and he had occasionally said those three familiar words: "I love you". But _this_…this felt _different_. He was stating something as a solid fact, and he sounded utterly honest. If he had been play-acting he wouldn't have spoken quite so plainly. He would have been trying to distract her with kisses, or whispering seductively in her ear.

She felt he was giving her an option – laying out his feelings quite clearly and giving her the option. She could understand what he was saying to her. _Don't expect romance_. _Don't expect me to drop everything to attend to your needs_. _I won't change_. He was wording it tentatively; half as a query, but it was clear what he meant. After all, he wasn't a very young man, likely to change and grow and develop into a more devoted lover. And he was far too strong-willed and stubborn to try to be someone different just to please her.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to think calmly for a moment before replying. "I'm not sure that it _does_ say anything, particularly. I don't know if you can quantify love in that way. I mean, people don't fundamentally change because they're in love – do they? Well, not _everyone_. The scientific theories can't account for individuals. I don't think so, anyway."

He stared at her, his eyes wild and confused. "_I don't know_! That's the point - and I _hate_ it. When I thought that I would never see you again, it felt…different. Do you understand? Mycroft was sending me on a suicide mission - ."

"But he might have been wrong," she interrupted. "If anyone can survive against overwhelming odds, it's _you_."

He laughed, rather bitterly. "Never say never. I wasn't seeking to give in too easily. But he's usually right, unfortunately. That's the trouble with Mycroft." He frowned. "I – back then, I wanted you to _know_ before I said goodbye. I suppose John would say that was selfish of me, to leave you with that -."

"_No_!" She kept her hand on his cheek, gripping his fingers tightly with her other hand as she tried to emphasise the word. "No, I'm _glad _you did. I would rather have known, even if we never met again." She shook her head, smiling ruefully. "All these years, I thought I was _so_ stupid loving you. I tried _so hard_ not to. I thought I'd spend the rest of my life always yearning for someone who was out of my reach…that I'd become this ridiculously tragic figure – not even _that_, just some silly delusional fool…"

Surprisingly, he laughed, dispelling some of the tension. "Well, you're not _that_ silly."

She smiled. "I'm not all that clever either, though. Let's face it, I may as well be a moron compared to _you_," she added, self-deprecatingly.

"That's true," he admitted, frankly, with a considering frown on his face.

She gasped in indignation, and then laughed, seeing the funny side. "You know, that's what I think I love _most_ about you, Sherlock! You don't try to dress things up, you just say exactly what you think. It's oddly charming, though I couldn't possibly tell you why." She shook her head, still smiling at the surprised look on his face – she wasn't sure whether it was surprise at her reaction or whether he genuinely didn't realise how insulting his agreement was.

She sobered and stood back a little, putting her head on one side as she considered him. "What I don't get is…_why_? Why _me_, Sherlock? I mean, I'm not your intellectual equal – although let's face it, who _is_? – and I'm not attractive or exotic like – well, like Janine or -."

She stopped quickly, but he picked up on it. "Like who?" His sharp eyes roamed over her face; she could feel herself reddening a little as she desperately tried not to think of the dark-haired beauty in the morgue…

But it was no good. "_Aha_!" he exclaimed, his face clearing. "I wondered when you would ask about…_her_."

"Um – well, I didn't like to ask…I mean, I could tell she meant a lot to you," she muttered, uncomfortably, remembering the blank look on his face that night as he looked down at that beautiful white body, frozen in death.

"_Does _she?" He frowned, seeming to consider this quite seriously.

"_Does_ – what do you mean? I thought – well, I mean she was dead…wasn't she?" Her mind started racing – not another ruse, surely…?

"_Anyway_," he went on, rather hastily. "This isn't getting the case solved. There's something we – _you_ – need to do, and we need to get on with it. It's evening, so the chat room will be getting busy…"

He walked over to the table where the laptop sat, and she suppressed a sigh and followed him. It was only what he had been trying to warn her about. No romance. Not in the middle of a case. And probably not all that much _outside_ of one.

"Oh, by the way," he added as she sat down. "You are right about something."

"Oh? Nice to know there's even something," she commented, drily. "What's that?"

He paused so long that she looked up at him in surprise.

His eyes were downcast, staring at his hands on the edge of the table. "You were right about science – it _can't_ explain everything. It can't explain – not in a purely logical sense – why I love _you_; why you mean far more to me than…well, never mind about that right now. I'm not even sure it's something I can explain…and it's _me_, Molly." He looked up at her, very serious. "When have I _not_ been able to explain something?"

She looked at him, not sure how to react. They were only questions that she wanted the answers to herself.

"There'll be research about it – reams of it," he continued, speaking quickly in his usual deductive manner. "Scientists can't bear something that they can't explain. I could go on that computer and research the subject, but the theories are rubbish, most of them, and in any case, they wouldn't explain _my_ emotions. I have always sought to control my feelings, so this is a major aberration. There's probably only one person on this world that might be able to explain and he would be _insupportably smug_ about the entire thing – it doesn't bear thinking about -."

Without thinking much about it, she spun around on her chair, grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him hard on the mouth. It had been an instinct, purely to shut him up, but there _were_ benefits, she reflected a little dreamily, as she turned it into a full-on snog. His mouth was a little stiff at first, probably with surprise, but he began to respond a little, tentatively opening his mouth to her questing tongue.

After a couple of minutes, having made her point, she let him go and sat back, taking a deep breath. He stumbled back looking quite dazed, much to her satisfaction. His mouth opened and then closed again, without making any sound. Just for once, he seemed to have no idea what to say.

She looked quickly back at the screen to hide her victorious smile. "Welcome to the human race, Sherlock."


	18. Chapter 18

**OK, a quick turnaround with this one - it must be a world record for me! Although it was half-written already when I posted the last, which helped.**

**PLEASE don't think that I am being in any way derogatory towards Ben's fans in this chapter. There's a massive difference between being devoted to Ben, who is a great actor and a lovely man, and Sherlock who, quite frankly, isn't all that nice (on the surface, anyway). So Molly's musings relate to **_**his**_** fans and not to Ben's, who are of course an extremely intelligent and discerning bunch!**

**Thanks for all the lovely reviews. I'm so glad that you're not finding Sherlock to be OOC here. Oh, and to answer Arcoiris, who I can't reply to personally because you're reviewing as a guest and it doesn't allow me to reply directly - yes, you are absolutely right. Mycroft DID make that point in an earlier chapter, as you will see below. And yes, I hadn't thought of the connection of the "you were right" moment with SW! It's a great moment in the original trilogy.**

* * *

**Chapter 18**

Molly stared uncomprehendingly at the laptop screen on the table in front of her. Sherlock seemed to have gone into an Internet chat room of some sort.

"What is it?"

There was a moment before he replied. Rather smugly, she guessed he was trying to steady his breathing after their kiss. Eventually, he leaned over her, frowning at the screen as he typed in a password. "A chat room with a very specific interest…in _me_."

She stared up at him, baffled. "_You_? What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I say… Oh, _come on_," he added, grinning at the look of surprise on her face. "You must have heard about the fans? The Sherlockians, the Holmes' Babes, all those women who walk around in the mini-skirts and deerstalkers?"

"I – I haven't really paid much attention," she muttered. It was true that Sherlock had attracted a fair amount of unwanted attention over the years, especially before and after his 'fall', when the tabloids (and Tumblr) just couldn't leave him alone. She'd been mildly shocked by some of the behaviour of the 'fans' – Janine had not been the first woman who had sold a story claiming an intimate relationship with the bachelor detective – but she had assumed it was all just a bit of fun.

She looked at the screen, nervously. There was something a little darker about this scenario – an entire chat room dedicated to discussing a man who, after all, wasn't an A-list celebrity constantly courting celebrity. What on Earth did they find to talk about?

"So, what do you want me to do?"

He put a hand on her shoulder, leaning over to whisper in her ear in a way that made her breath stutter. She suspected he knew _perfectly well_ what impact he was having on her…and she also suspected that this was pay-back.

"I want you to imagine," he breathed, "that you are a lonely pathology assistant, living alone with your cat, and that you have a _major_ crush on a consulting detective who never seems to notice you. You feel bitter because, a few years' ago, a horrible man dated you only to get close to the detective. You don't know what happened to the obsessive fan, who was probably gay, but the detective hardly ever talks to you anymore. You feel embarrassed and terribly hurt…but you just can't forget him. And he always treated you so cruelly too."

"He was never _that_ cruel," she whispered, very quietly, but he heard her nonetheless. His hand tightened slightly on her shoulder and his lips touched the pulse in her neck, just below her ear. It was the lightest of kisses and barely there, but she shivered.

"Just remember," he went on, sounding a little more business-like, "no one knows that you helped me survive the fall. We have never been seen together in public, apart from at John's wedding, where I didn't speak to you directly the entire day and you were there with another man and as a guest of John's. No one knows that you are anything to me other than a pathology assistant that I used to work with."

"OK. So what do I do?"

"Chat. Talk about me. I can't do it myself – I'm good at camouflage, but not _that _good. These are women of around your age; you know how they talk, what language they use. And besides which, you have a particular motivation that a stranger wouldn't."

"Which is?"

"Well, think about it." He pulled over another chair and sat next to her, giving her an indecipherable look. "Imagine that you'd been in love with me for years, and I'd carried on treating you as an object of scorn while expecting you to give me illegal access to equipment and body parts. Imagine that I had compounded that by having a passionate affair with Mary Watson's bridesmaid, the details of which were so luridly printed in the tabloids. And, all the time, there you are – loyal little Molly Hooper, scorned by the man she loves. And you've grown bitter. You love me, you want me, but just a little part of you wants me to suffer for all the hurt I've caused you."

She looked away, made uncomfortable by his all-seeing gaze. "Sherlock, I would _never_ have wanted to hurt you, even if you had still treated me that way."

He grabbed her chin, forcing her to face him again. "_I_ know that. _They_ don't. Always remember, they don't know the _real _you at all."

She caught her breath at the intensity of his gaze. "OK." She looked back at the screen. "What do you expect to get out of it?"

"It's not the people chatting that I'm interested in. It's the lurkers. The ones listening in and not contributing. The ones who might be looking for opportunities to get closer to me. And that's where _you _come in. That's why I want you to sign in as _yourself_ \- Molly Hooper – and try to portray yourself as a wronged woman looking for sympathy. I've already created a user profile for you."

She looked at the screen as he pointed out her name in the 'room'. 'Mollythecat' was already receiving a few friendly queries from others, asking her who she was and why she was there.

"Ok…but I don't really see what good it'll do. What makes you think that anyone would be watching the online activities of a group of women? And why _this _group in particular?"

He waved his hand dismissively. "Checked out the rest; none of them fit the profile. But I believe that _this_ chat room was set up by someone with a specific purpose. It fits the profile."

She didn't really understand, but she nodded and lifted her hands towards the keyboard. However, he grabbed her wrist before she could go any further.

"Molly, there's something you need to understand. First Moriarty and then Magnussen have tried to get to me – to bring me down. Both men, and both _used_ a man - my best friend, John Watson - as a - a _conduit_. A _trigger_ to make me play their games. But _this_ time…I believe it's a woman. And she'll use a woman to get to me."

She looked into his eyes, noting the concern that he couldn't quite conceal. "I'll do my best."

* * *

After a nervous start, Molly began to enjoy the little deception. Her initial greeting of 'Hi everyone! I'm Mollythecat' had received plenty of replies. The posters seemed fairly pleasant and good-humoured. They were mostly thirty- or forty-something women, some single, some in relationships – and they didn't initially come across as particularly unhinged by their obsession with one man. In other circumstances, she might have got on well with some of them.

That they _were_ obsessed was obvious. She might have understood more if the adulation had been to do with his cases or his scientific methods of deduction, but it wasn't. They focused purely on his appearance, his clothes, whether or not he had changed his hairstyle and whether he was looking older these days. They discussed snippets of information that were published in the press from time to time – blurred photos of him walking in the street or going in or out of specific buildings, with speculation as to who he might be visiting. The fallout from the Janine story was still very fresh, with animated discussions about how much of her lurid tale could be believed – was Sherlock _really_ capable of "seven-times-a-night" bedroom adventures?

Inevitably, there was gossip about John and Mary Watson – reports suggested that John was looking pale and strained, and people wondered whether his marriage had already broken down after only a few months. Mary was portrayed very negatively – she was clearly a selfish woman who didn't like her husband working with his close friend. John had probably only married her out of pity because she was pregnant with his child. Other theories suggested that _she'd_ only married John to get close to Sherlock and that she was insanely jealous of their friendship; that the baby she was carrying was _his_ rather than her husband's, or else she wished it was.

The lurid speculations made Molly start to feel a bit sick, especially the nasty comments about John and Mary, but she gamely tried to enter into the spirit of the thing. Meanwhile, Sherlock paced about in the background, sending various texts on his mobile. In some ways, she found it easier to pretend he wasn't there – that she really _was_ at home in the flat, slouching on the sofa in her slippers with Toby purring next to her. It made it easier to imagine the person she had once been, when Sherlock occupied her every other thought - when, in fact, she'd been just as obsessive over every comment and every casual touch as these people. She could hardly afford to be scathing about _them_ when she'd been no better back in the early days.

Within the conversation, she carefully and very gradually revealed information about herself – that her real name was Molly Hooper, that she was currently single and loved cats, and that she worked in the pathology laboratory at Bart's. It was at least an hour (and the Chinese takeaway had arrived and been brought upstairs by a mildly grumbling Mrs Hudson) before she had the first direct question: "Have you ever met him there?"

She expected her cautious "Once or twice" to be greeted with disbelief or even derision, but in fact they seemed to take her claim at face value. There _had_ been at least half a dozen women and a couple of men in the chat room who had claimed to have met the great man – anything from being a former client or a witness (one man kept wittering on about unused underground stations, so she could guess _his_ true identity) to simply brushing against his famous coat in the street as he dashed past. She was bombarded with eager questions – what was he like? Did he ever speak to her? Was John there and what were they like with each other?

She cast her mind back to the early days and tried to be as honest as she could. It was easy to summon up memories of how striking he had been when she'd first seen him. She described their first meeting and how clumsy and uncouth she had felt, and then mentioned other occasions, but was careful to imply that he was always just as scornful and rude as he had been on that first occasion.

She tried to portray herself as a lonely woman who had nobody to talk to in her everyday life and needed to unburden herself with sympathetic strangers. Her descriptions of being manipulated, insulted and brutally cast off as soon she'd outlived her usefulness provoked some sympathy but also a fair amount of envy. It would seem that receiving a nasty comment from Sherlock was something of a badge of honour.

She paused in her typing as one poster provided an excited exposition of his insulting response to a question that she'd posted on his Science of Deduction website – judging by the woman's brief description of said question, Molly wasn't at all surprised that Sherlock had been more than usually scathing. And yet, the woman seemed to see extra meaning in every well-crafted insult…and the others took her perfectly seriously. Each word, each phrase was pulled apart and examined for hidden clues as to what he had 'really' thought of her message.

"Was I _really_ that bad?" she muttered, staring at the screen in disbelief.

"Mmm?" He came up to stand next to her, having helped himself to a plate of chicken chow mein. The tantalisingly hot greasy smell tickled her nostrils and she quickly snagged a noodle from the plate.

He gave her a cold look, but she shrugged her shoulders, unimpressed, and nicked a sliver of chicken as well before turning back to the screen. "If you don't like sharing, you can always be polite and get me some. I'm talking about _that_. _Please _tell me I was never that obsessed."

"Don't be silly. You were _much _worse." He handed the plate and fork to her and leaned over the screen, his eyes running over the conversation. "Oh – _her_. I remember that question, if you can call it that. So, any lurkers?"

"Not sure. There's so many of them and the conversation is so fast that it's hard to tell if anyone's _not _talking."

His eyes flickered to the top of the screen, quickly. "_There_." He pointed at a specific name among those that indicated a current presence in the chatroom.

She leaned forward. "VaticanCameoes? What kind of name is _that_?"

He frowned. "An interesting one. She's giving herself away; she knows that name will only mean something to me. And she knows that I will remember one occasion in particular when that phrase was uttered – and who was there to hear it. She _wants_ me to know who she is, and also that she's lurking, but _why_? She's the one who set this chatroom up in the first place. It's possible that she doesn't know that I'm even aware of it, but if that's the case, _why the name_?"

She twirled some steaming noodles onto her fork and lifted it to her mouth, but he grabbed both fork and dish away. When she glared at him, he gestured at the screen impatiently. "You can eat that later. The fish has been baited…possibly. Let's see how it reacts."

* * *

By the time Sherlock decided she could sign off, Molly felt bone-tired. She hadn't been sleeping all that well the last few nights, and the day had been emotionally exhausting anyway. Her activities of the last few hours hadn't helped much.

She had found herself the focus of extreme attention. Every single encounter with Sherlock (the ones she chose to disclose) had to be analysed in great detail. What had he said and how had she responded, which shirt had he worn (was it the famous 'purple shirt of sex'?) and what had his hair looked like? (This last was from an individual who seemed completely obsessed with Sherlock's hair). How tall was he really, because in the papers he looked quite tall, but was that just an illusion? What type of woman did she think he liked; alternatively, what type of man? And did she think he was secretly in love with John Watson? Was it unrequited?

She answered the questions to the best of her ability, trying to keep in character, but they continued to come at a dizzying rate. In between answers, she ate a plate of pork with mixed vegetables and special fried rice and drank plenty of water, which helped to keep her head clear. Eventually, Sherlock instructed her to wrap it up, so she apologised for leaving the chat, explaining that she had to go to work in the morning. By now, it was almost 11. She noticed that 'VaticanCameos' was still in the chatroom, but hadn't contributed anything to the conversation all evening.

As she logged out, Sherlock quickly logged in under a different username. He nodded with satisfaction when they saw that, although the debate continued, 'VaticanCameos' had now logged out also.

One question that she had never been asked all evening was why she had carried on helping him when he was so horrible to her. Her audience seemed to take it as read that _any_ attention from the great man, no matter how hurtful, was worth the pain. That, more than anything, worried her. She hadn't sought to _explain_ her understanding of his odd behaviour; she hadn't given them a _true _sense of the man – of the way in which he could turn the cruellest of comments into something oddly kind in a single instant; of the way in which he cared deeply without ever showing it. She'd simply stated the cold facts of his behaviour, had even exaggerated when she thought she could get away with it. Seen purely objectively, that behaviour was not even _remotely_ justifiable. The cold realities didn't seem to make even a dent in their collective belief. She had sought to portray herself as a victim, and yet their devotion to Sherlock remained as firm as before. What did that say for their expectations about men generally and, more to the point, what did it say about their sense of self-worth?

She leaned back in her chair, rubbing her eyes. Suddenly, a steaming cup of tea appeared in front of her.

She grabbed it and stared up at Sherlock in disbelief.

"_What_?" he said, defensively. "I can boil a kettle, you know. I'm not _entirely_ incompetent in the kitchen."

"Well, the way John tells it…" She allowed the sentence to tail off meaningfully as she blew on her tea and took a sip. It wasn't too bad either – not stewed or too weak, as she had half expected it to be.

He made a dismissive sound. "Why bother to waste my _own_ valuable time on domestic matters when there's someone there to do it?"

"But that's _awful_. Do you mean you've always pretended to be hopeless so John would do all the cooking?"

He shrugged nonchalantly. "He likes to claim that I don't know one end of a kettle from the other – or a saucepan for that matter - but he singularly fails to recall that I lived by myself for fourteen years and I managed to survive _then_."

"Without _Mummy_ delivering home-made casseroles from time to time?" she asked, wickedly, and he gave a theatrical shudder as he flung himself onto his sofa.

"Don't even _joke_ about that. I don't know why she bothered – I didn't eat much even when I lived at home. Mycroft was a far more grateful recipient, although he's far too grand to accept food from home these days. Much too common for _him_."

"I'm not so sure about that," she murmured thoughtfully, remembering Mycroft's enthusiastic eating habits, both at the restaurant and at his club. "Oh - that reminds me. He once said that I would 'count'. Not that I _did_, but that I _would_. What do you suppose he meant by that?"

He had been lying back on the sofa, gazing at the ceiling, but at her words, he turned onto his side and narrowed his eyes at her. "When did he say that?"

"When you were 'dead', just before you came back. I told you about it at the hospital. He 'invited' me to dinner at one point - you know, the way he does - and when I asked him why, he said something about wanting to meet the person who would become important to his younger brother." She drifted over to sit in the armchair that she always thought of as John's. "Sherlock? It doesn't matter really, I just wondered…"

He had rolled back on his back. His hands were folded under his chin in the familiar manner and he was frowning at the ceiling. "So, even back then…he _knew_. But he always said…but that's… What is he playing at _now_?" His voice died away and he continued to stare into space.

Recognising that he was not in the mood to talk, she curled into the armchair, drawing her legs up under her, and sipped her tea slowly. The silence deepened between them, but it was a comfortable one, almost domestic. At some point earlier in the evening, Sherlock must have built up the fire because it now burned brightly in the grate. Molly was glad of the warmth; it was going to be a brutally cold, clear night from what she could see through the window.

She thought rather guiltily of Toby. She'd received a text from her neighbour earlier in the evening to say that she'd received her message concerning the cat and had brought him down into her flat, but Molly hadn't even phoned to check on him and it was too late now…

"Oh my God!" she exclaimed, as another realisation hit her. "I completely forgot about Mary!"

By way of answer, Sherlock pulled out his phone and waved it at her. "8 centimetres dilated at the last text, which was – hmm." He consulted his screen. "Twenty-six minutes ago. They've got a while to go yet."

"_Really_? It did slow down then."

He shook his head, impatiently. "It didn't slow down. She was under deep stress, which accentuated the severity of the contractions. Once she was able to focus on the matter in hand, she was able to cope better. She's a tough woman, Mary." His voice indicated his approval.

"You're very fond of her, aren't you?" She leaned over to place her empty mug on the side table before settling back into her seat.

He paused. "Yes. I suppose I _am_ \- for reasons that you wouldn't comprehend if I tried to explain them… She's good for John, she's what he needs. She isn't even _remotely_ what she seems."

She gave him an ironic look. "And I suppose that one day you might explain to me what you mean by that?"

"One day," he agreed, equably.

She yawned. "Well, I'm exhausted. Time for my bed – well, John's bed, I suppose." She snorted, turning her laugh into another yawn. "And _that_ sounded worse than it is."

She got up and took her mug through to the kitchen. Sherlock's newly-revealed domestic skills clearly didn't extend to washing-up, so she rolled up her sleeves and got to work. He didn't join her in the kitchen, but the plates didn't take long to wash. She resealed the cartons of unfinished Chinese food and put them in the fridge and then went back into the lounge.

Sherlock was motionless on the sofa, his eyes closed, but he was too still to be asleep. She wandered over to him a little diffidently, not wanting to disturb his thought processes.

She thought she'd moved fairly quietly, but his eyes snapped open and he turned his head to look up at her.

"Was what I did any use?" she asked tentatively, gesturing towards the laptop.

He seemed to consider his answer for a moment. "It…might be. It has raised more questions than answers, although it has also served to confirm a suspicion."

She waited, but he didn't seem inclined to say any more, sinking back into the cushions and focusing his attention on the ceiling once more.

"Well, I – I'm tired, so…I guess I'll go to bed. I suppose you're staying up?" she asked. She could remember his erratic sleeping habits from the times he had stayed with her in the flat, although back then, he'd tended to shut himself away in her bedroom.

"Yes." His eyes opened again and he looked up at her a little warily.

She sighed. "Oh, _relax_, Sherlock. I know you're focused on this case. Just don't expect me to stay up all night too, that's all I ask. I need my eight hours of sleep a night."

He snorted. "You're as bad as John. It's merely habit, imposed by traditional expectations from the nursery onwards -."

"_No_," she interrupted firmly. "A good night's sleep is an entirely normal biological requirement for most of us…and thanks to the stress caused by _someone_ not too far away from me, I'm overdue one of those. Good night."

He shrugged up at her, blinking a little in the firelight. "Fair enough. It was always worth a try." His tone was deadpan, but his mouth twitched giving away his amusement.

She mirrored the slight smile and leaned over to give him a brief kiss. As she straightened up, however, he grabbed her hand and held it against his lips, his oddly light eyes glittering silver in the light from the fire. As he mouthed light kisses across her palm and over her wrist, she shivered deliciously at the erotic sensation and then laughed lightly. "You mentioned not knowing the 'rules' earlier. I'm not sure _I_ do either – not when it comes to _you_. I don't know what you expect of me, or what I should - or _shouldn't_ \- expect of you."

Even as she said it, her instinct told her that Janine's story couldn't possibly be true – on _any_ level.

He pressed his lips against her wrist, looking at her steadily.

"Likewise. I…" he swallowed and looked away, relinquishing her wrist. "I don't have much experience of this kind of thing."

_Zero experience, more like_, she mused as she saw the slight flush in his cheeks. "Well, we'll work it out when the case is over. For now…" She paused for a moment, trying to work out how to put it, before deciding for complete honesty. "Sherlock, you just have to tell me what you need and _don't_ need as we go along. I mean, I can't keep second-guessing whether it's OK to kiss you or not. And I – I _do_ understand that the Work comes first, and I'll always respect that, but it doesn't mean that I won't be seeking _some_ affection from you from time to time. But…I do understand. I just wanted you to know – that's all."

She stood back a little. He looked up at her again and gave her a jerky little nod of acknowledgement. She smiled at him and left the room quickly, before she could think better of it. He needed space to think things over. If he really was that inexperienced with sex as well as with romantic relationships, she would have to tread lightly.

She'd left the heater on in John's old room, so it was pleasantly toasty by now. After switching it off, she changed into her pyjamas and then discovered the major disadvantage of the room – the downstairs bathroom. So much for a strategic exit… She hurried downstairs and through the lounge into the bathroom. As she left it, she glanced over towards the sofa. Sherlock was lying as still as a statue and didn't look in her direction, so she crept back up the stairs to bed.

John's mattress was an old, rather saggy affair, but it was oddly comfortable and she snuggled down under the crisp, freshly-scented duvet, feeling utterly content for the first time in a while. Odd, she reflected sleepily, that she could feel so safe and happy when Sherlock was facing yet another deadly enemy… Interesting that he thought it was a woman – and also interesting that he seemed to know her, or think he did…

Suddenly, she recalled his words… "This time…I believe it's a woman. And she'll use a woman to get to me."

Restlessly, she turned over a couple of times before sinking into a deep sleep…with dreams that were peppered with strange and unsettling images of blood-red polished nails, sleek dark hair and a gleaming white body…


	19. Chapter 19

**First of all, sorry for such a long hiatus. Home life has been busier than ever, with Christmas approaching and also preparing a birthday party for a bunch of over-excited 7-year-old girls (hmm!). Also, I had been moving on with my other fic A Good Man in Honore, because it'll be a much shorter fic than this and I'm hoping to get it out of the way (in the nicest possible sense), so I can focus fully on this one. So, I'm sorry if you get your hopes up for an update every time something arrives into your in-box, only to be disappointed because it's the other story. We'll get there…**

**Secondly, BLESS YOU, you lovely people, for being so kind about the negative reviews I had from one individual. And ****please**** don't worry, I'm not remotely concerned about being trolled by a semi-illiterate with the emotional intelligence of a 7-year-old (and that's insulting my own very intelligent 7-year-old)! Llyly, I couldn't reply direct because you reviewed as a guest, but I do appreciate your supportive comments too, as well as those from people who PM'ed me. Anyway, that's all I'm going to say about that!**

**I seem to specialise in writing chapters that are far too long and then having to split them up…and what follows here is an example of that. Which means that the following chapter won't be too far behind – hooray!**

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**Chapter 19**

Molly woke with a start. The winter sun was coming through the window, dazzling her, and she realised she'd been too tired to draw the curtains the previous night. She glanced at her wristwatch and realised with a shock that it was gone 8AM already.

She jumped out of bed and grabbed her dressing gown, shivering in the frigid temperature of the room. After turning on the heater and noting with annoyance that there was a timer setting that she hadn't spotted the previous day, she hurried over to the window.

The attic room looked out over the slanting roofs of nearby buildings, although if she craned her neck she could just make out Baker Street far below her to the left. It wasn't such a bad lookout – she could just make out the green of Regent's Park between two of the roofs straight ahead, and as someone who usually lived in a top-floor flat, she didn't mind the distance from ground floor level. She could tell it was a beautiful winter's day, crisply cold and frosty right now but also sunny.

Remembering Toby, she retrieved her phone from her handbag and dialled her neighbour's number. "Sophie? I'm sorry I didn't call yesterday… Oh, is he? _Thank you_, I really appreciate it… Yes, I'll get back in touch later today when I've made some arrangements. Thanks so much… bye."

She looked around the room as she put her mobile in her dressing gown pocket, giggling slightly at Sherlock's likely reaction to a feline invasion by Toby. They might get on quite well since they were quite similar in personality. Actually, she didn't even know if he liked animals. Knowing him, he would probably carry out experiments on her poor cat… She shuddered at the thought, mentally considering what alternative arrangements might be made for Toby, and then laughed at herself for assuming that she and Sherlock were at the 'moving in together' stage already.

She _had_ rushed things a bit with Tom, and perhaps that was the reason why she felt a little unsure now. However, she had a feeling that the normal relationship rules – the unwritten rules about what should happen when - didn't apply to Sherlock. He certainly wouldn't care what people thought. The more important question was whether he'd want to live with anyone at all. Anyone apart from John, that was…

She sternly told herself off for _still_ having so little faith in his feelings for her. Last night should have told her for certain that he _did_ love her, even if he was uncharacteristically uncertain about how to proceed. But then, if he was as inexperienced as he implied, he really _wouldn't_ know what to do. Was he – could she assume that he was a virgin? That seemed unbelievable in this day and age, for someone who hadn't made a specific cultural or religious choice for celibacy, but _really_, when would someone like Sherlock have had the opportunity? She had assumed that he might have had a chance to lose his virginity at University, and if not there were, of course, his wild, drug-taking years when he might not have been fully aware of what he was doing. And then there was that dark-haired, white-bodied beauty whose image haunted her dreams… But then again, she'd assumed that he'd slept with Janine before he'd claimed that it wasn't true. And there was that little flush of embarrassment on his cheeks when he admitted to being inexperienced… So perhaps he _was_.

The idea gave her pause. She might have to _guide _him in the ways of physical intimacy. The images that gave her made her shiver a little in anticipation, but the worry was how easy it would be for her to work out whether he was simply unsure or actively unwilling. How tactile was he? Actually, he could be _extremely_ tactile (he had no sense of space, for a start), but were his tendency to crowd and his casual touches intentional or simply a result of him being utterly focused on the Work? She didn't want to run the risk of freaking him out with more intimacy than he could cope with.

For example, how would he react if she walked downstairs and kissed him right now, or even tried to touch him intimately? Would he be shocked, would he flinch away from her touch? And if he _did_, how could she tell whether it was natural shyness that could be overcome with persistence or an active dislike of the act? Would he even know himself? She had the impression that Sherlock had somehow mentally turned off the tap of his sexuality in order to focus on the Work. How easily could he turn it back on again…and would he even want to? What would that mean for them? Molly didn't consider herself particularly highly-sexed, but she did crave intimacy from time to time and didn't think she could really live without it in the long run, however much she loved him.

She sighed. Really, she needed someone who was conversant in 'Sherlock language' to interpret for her. Someone like John…

She stopped, her hands flying to her cheeks in horror. John, Mary - the baby! _Oh God_, she'd forgotten _again_… She flew down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Sherlock was lying on the sofa, semi-reclined and tapping a message into his smartphone. She might have suspected that he hadn't moved at all since the previous evening, except that he'd changed out of his suit into a tatty t-shirt, pyjama trousers and a dressing gown. He didn't look up as she burst into the room, but tossed the news casually in her direction, as if it was of no interest whatsoever.

"It's a girl. Arrived at 6.38 this morning."

She leaned against the door frame, trying to catch her breath. "Oh, thank heavens. Weight? Name?"

He didn't pause in his typing. "Didn't ask."

"Oh, for -." She grabbed her phone from her pocket, and turned her back on him. Realising that it wouldn't be particularly helpful to bother John right now, she selected Greg's number instead.

"Molly?" He answered promptly, sounding alarmed. "You OK?"

"Oh – yes, it's all fine, I didn't mean to panic you. I'm still at Baker Street. Sorry to bother you, but I wondered if you'd heard about Mary and the baby?"

"Yes." His voice softened a fraction. "It's a girl, 6lb 8oz. Mum and baby are fine. They've named her Eleanor Rose…. No, I don't _think_ they're family names."

"OK, thanks Greg." She hesitated. "I'm really sorry I bothered you. You sound busy?"

"Yeah, I've been up most of the night." Now she thought about it, he _did_ sound pretty tired. "Things are a bit mad here – what with trying to work out exactly how Sherlock's latest 'friend' managed to infiltrate the nation's entire telecommunications system for a while. Mycroft keeps sending me supercilious texts, which is usually a sign that his people are just as baffled as us. And someone – quite possibly the same bastard – deactivated the security systems of a number of department stores last night. We've been inundated with cases of large-scale theft – crowds of people quite literally walking into the open doors of shops and carrying stuff out again. It's chaos here."

"Oh…" She felt guilty – had she been the only one to get any sleep last night? "I'd better leave you to get on with it. Thanks for the news about the baby."

"No problem. Oh, Molly, I'd stay put there for a bit longer if I were you. Ring in sick for work. I'm waiting to hear back from Mycroft. They're analysing the level of risk to you personally - around your flat and at Bart's and so on. I suspect Mycroft will visit you at some point to issue his 'recommendations'." His voice was heavy with irony.

"OK, will do. Thanks, Greg."

She rung off and looked around at Sherlock. He was still focusing on his phone, but his lips were twitching in a familiar manner.

She sighed in resigned annoyance. "You bloody well _knew_ all the details already, didn't you?" It wasn't really a question.

He smirked at her. "Yes, but it was fun watching you assume that I wouldn't. For heaven's sake, Molly, didn't you think I could _deduce_ what the name would be just by the tone of John's voice? He rang me about 20 minutes after the birth. Anyway, I knew you'd try Lestrade next and could update me on what he's doing right now. For some reason, he's not answering my calls."

"Does that surprise you?" She nodded towards the TV, which was on the BBC News channel but with the sound turned down. Scenes of chaos that had been caught on CCTV at the John Lewis store on Oxford Street the previous night were being shown, while the captions underneath described the scale of the problem.

He glanced at the screen. "The first stage. She's showing us the level of power she has and the trouble she can cause if we don't give her what she wants."

"Which is?"

He shrugged, looking back at his phone. "Not yet known… Anyway, what's Gavin up to?"

"_Greg_ is trying to cope with _that_." She nodded at the screen before walking into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. As she boiled the kettle, she realised what a state she must look in her bedraggled old dressing gown and fluffy slippers. Her hair wasn't even brushed. But, on the other hand, he'd seen her in all kinds of a state before and never seemed that interested, so she shrugged now and concentrated on making coffee and putting through her call to Mike. Being conscientious, she took the day off as annual leave rather than pleading a fake illness.

She made Sherlock a coffee too. After pulling the coffee table over and putting the mugs on it, she stood irresolute, wondering whether she should sit in one of the armchairs further away from the table. But…on the other hand, nothing ventured, nothing gained… After a further moment's hesitation, she shoved his feet away from the end of the sofa so she could sit down in relative comfort. He muttered under his breath, but bent his knees and moved his feet to give her room.

She sat down, savouring a feeling of contentment. It seemed perfectly natural to be sitting on the sofa with Sherlock, both in dressing gowns with mugs of coffee, and she allowed herself to dream of a future where she could take such casual domesticity for granted.

Sherlock looked quite uncomfortable, stretched out on his back with his gangly legs tightly bent, but after a moment he stretched his legs out again, placing his bare feet across her lap without any hesitation. _So much for avoiding intimacy_, she thought to herself as she settled back with her mug and turned up the volume to listen to the news.

He put his phone down and dropped his head back to the armrest, staring up at the ceiling as the newsreader gave the latest information. The system malfunctions had all occurred in a ten square mile area, mostly focused on the West End and affecting many of the major department stores, including Harrods, Selfridges, Liberty's and Hamley's. They had left the store doors open and had turned off security alarms and the internal security cameras, which meant that the stores' security staff hadn't been able to react quickly enough to the breach. And when they _had_, the crowds in the stores had been too large and out-of-control for them to deal with, and the police were overwhelmed with 999 calls.

External CCTV cameras had been unaffected, and Molly watched with amazement and horror as the crowds milled around the open doors of Liberty's, pushing the security guards over in their rush to grab whatever they could. The CCTV film indicated that it was 2.30 in the morning.

"There are more people there in the early hours than there would be during the day," she commented. "You wouldn't think there were that many dishonest people in central London…or am I just being naïve?" Some of the people swarming in were knocked over by others pushing their way out with large boxes probably containing flat-screen TVs and laptops. It would have been funny if it hadn't been so horrific to watch people quite literally clawing each other out of the way.

"They're not _from _central London," Sherlock commented, turning his head to look at the screen from a torturous angle. "Although no doubt some of them came across the situation by chance and decided to join in. The majority are either organised gangs or petty criminals and opportunists. Individuals were carefully planted to alert them to the security breach in advance. They wouldn't have been the West End in the middle of the night otherwise."

Molly blinked as the footage showed a fight breaking out in front of a PC World. "_Why_? What's the point – what's _she_ trying to achieve? It's not as if it's a bomb at Canary Wharf or something really serious like that."

He gestured at the screen. "You don't think _that_ is serious? On the surface, it's probably _not_, although it creates several days of havoc for the Met, to say nothing of the weeks and months of investigations and arrests and charges and trials that will follow. But it's the _consequences_ that count. Do you see the impact it's had on the stock market today? Several major stores have lost large quantities of their key stock. What does that do to company shares as they try to cope with the financial loss that will probably never be recovered? And what is the social impact?"

He laid his head back again and continued: "What is the impact on civil order, with ordinary people – and some of those people _are_ ordinary people – running into open stores, knocking guards over and fighting with strangers just to grab some free electronic goods? What if it happens again, on an even larger scale? What if it happens to every supermarket and people rush in, grabbing food off the shelves? If you, an ordinary law-abiding citizen, see that happening, wouldn't you join in? You're shaking your head, you think you wouldn't, but what if you have children or an elderly relative to feed? What if you are genuinely worried that there won't be bread or milk on the shelves for you to buy tomorrow? Wouldn't you be tempted to rush in and grab some bread and milk before it disappears? When there is a breakdown in civil order, the natural human instinct is to survive – and to hoard. And when you've taken that path _once_, how much easier is it to do it _again_ whenever the chance arises?"

"Civilisation is only ever four meals away from barbarism," she quoted, thoughtfully.

He lifted his head, giving her an uncomprehending look. "Who was it who said that? Never mind, I'm not interested, although it does get the general point across. The citizens of a large city are used to the underlying systems of supply and demand, although they don't give them much thought. All they care about is that the cash machines will provide money, the local shops will be supplied with fresh food every day and they can buy their luxury goods at affordable prices. Take that certainty away, and what are you left with? A confused populace who have _no idea_ how to survive. And then other systems start to fall apart, bit by bit. The public transport stops working, so people can't get to work even if they are minded to and as a result even fewer goods and services are available. The emergency services start to crack under extreme pressure. Civil order breaks down until eventually it becomes a matter of survival of the fittest which, in this day and age, means survival of those with the weapons."

She stared at him, her mug of undrunk coffee motionless in her hand.

"You think that couldn't possibly happen?" He sat up, leaning against his corner of the sofa and regarding her seriously. "_She's_ just illustrated that it _could_…always assuming she has enough control over the relevant systems. We cannot be sure. And we also don't know what she wants – not yet."

He stood up, moving restlessly. "She's watching us, especially _you _now you're on her radar. And, sooner or later, we're going to run the risk of her knowing that you're _here_. With me."

He didn't have to say that it would ruin his plans if the mysterious woman _did_ discover that Molly was on better terms with Sherlock than she had claimed to be last night. He _wanted_ this mysterious woman to interact directly with Molly – what was it he had said? That 'she' would use a woman to get to him. And Sherlock intended _Molly_ to be that woman.


	20. Chapter 20

**And here's the second part of that long chapter! Be very kind, ****please**** \- I'm not used to writing this kind of stuff and I'm feeling a little unsure about it! I really hope it doesn't qualify for the fanfic equivalent of the 'bad sex' award - not that it goes anywhere **_**that**_** far – not yet… ;-)**

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**Chapter 20**

As Sherlock's words sank in, Molly stood up, trying to avoid his all-seeing gaze as she took her mug into the kitchen.

With great deliberation, she poured the cold contents into the sink and began to rinse her mug out. Staring out of the small window behind the sink without really seeing the tiny yard it looked out on, she automatically sloshed the warm water through the mug several times before placing it on the draining board.

"In that case…" she said, slowly. "I suppose I should leave Baker Street as quickly as possible…?"

Just saying the words made her feel dead inside. It was ridiculous, on the basis of one afternoon, evening and night, to feel so completely, so _utterly_ at home in this flat, but she did. Last night, working at the laptop while stealing bits of food off Sherlock's plate, and this morning, sitting on the sofa watching the TV together, had given her a false sense of comfortable domesticity. It was all-too-easy to picture herself in John's place. Right now, if Sherlock had offered her the spare room on a permanent basis, she'd had jumped at the chance, even if their relationship never developed any further.

She noticed that he didn't deny her tentative suggestion. Turning around, she found him leaning against the archway, his arms folded as he looked at her silently. There was uncertainty in his expression, as if he wasn't sure how she would react.

She forced a little laugh. "Only I don't know _where_ I should go. Greg said that my flat was under observation, but he didn't want me to leave here immediately – or not until Mycroft confirmed it was safe."

"It _will_ be safe. But you can't leave." He lifted a hand when she started to protest. "Not from the front door. You'd be recognised. She'll be watching the flat."

She looked nervously through the doorway towards the lounge window, which looked out over Baker Street. The curtains were still closed. It was fortunate that she hadn't stood there looking out either today or yesterday. Something occurred to her. "What if she was watching yesterday? Wouldn't she have seen me come in?"

"Unlikely, even if she had been. Like most policeman, Graham can be annoyingly over-the-top when it comes to safety, but this time it worked to our advantage. As you will recall, the police car you travelled in was parked close to the steps and you were rushed out of it and into 221 with your head covered by his coat. She will know that someone was taken into the flat and she may even have noticed that it was a woman, but she won't connect that person with you…just as long as we're subtle. You shouldn't go back into that chat room again."

"Why not?"

"Because it'll look too much like you're trying to set something up. Let's make it seem as if you _know_ you made a mistake in revealing so much of your private feelings towards me and are embarrassed about it. You need to appear subdued when you go back to work, but you don't have to do anything else. She will make contact with you."

"Are you _ever _going to tell me who 'she' is?" Molly asked, plaintively. "It's obvious you know her. Who should I be looking out for? And why does she hate you so much?"

"It doesn't matter – she'll seek you out. And with regard to…" Sherlock paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. "She _doesn't _hate me. It's…complicated. I _fascinate _her."

"And…" Molly swallowed. "And does she fascinate you?"

The silence stretched between them for a long, horrible moment…before he pushed himself off the wall and walked towards her slowly.

"On a certain level – _yes_. Perhaps she does. I think John commented once that she is the only person to have got the better of me, and that's rare enough to be fascinating." His eyes flickered over her face, picking up the emotions that she couldn't hide. "But I don't obsess over her, if that's what you mean. And I'm not in love with her."

Her voice was shaking slightly. "_Aren't_ you?" Once again, unbidden, the image of that dark-haired beauty came into her mind… Why did she keep thinking of a dead woman?

"_No_." He reached out with one long finger and tilted her chin up. She felt her breath catch at the expression on his face. This…_this_ was something else. She'd seen a confused emotion in his eyes – a love that he could not hide even though it was, in a sense, against his will – but it had been a tentative, gentle emotion. But _this_… His eyes, darkened by sheer want, wandered slowly over her features, almost burning a path with their intensity as they travelled, lingering finally on her lips before he moved in…

And the kiss felt different this time. There was heat and urgency in the interplay between their lips and tongues. His hands came up, one in the small of her back, pulling her tightly against him even as they crashed back against the fridge, the other cradling her head to protect it as he kissed her hard and passionately. There was no trace of the tentative lover here – this man was dominant and quite clear about what he wanted. His hands began to roam over her, seeking a gap in the stupid fluffy pink dressing gown…she gasped as his hand slipped around the side of her waist, pushing her clothing out of the way so that his fingers could find their way onto bare skin. His mouth left hers and she closed her eyes as she felt him tracing a line with his tongue down to the pulse in her neck. His large hand under her pyjama top spanned her lower back and she shivered at the feel of his cold fingers tracing an exploratory route up her spine.

Momentarily, she felt overwhelmed. There was an edge of desperation that she couldn't really miss in the way that Sherlock was lavishing attention on her neck and shoulder, pushing her dressing gown away so he could work his way down, kissing and nipping and sucking little bruises into her skin before licking to soothe them. It was brutal and yet oddly gentle at the same time, as if he was beset by conflicting passions. His body was flush against her and she couldn't miss the physical evidence of his arousal as his lower body rocked rhythmically against hers, perhaps unconsciously. Dazed by sensation, the most she could do for a moment was simply hold on, digging her fingers into his curls and arching her neck to give him better access. Her mind was racing, aroused but confused by the sudden change in his behaviour. It took her longer than it should have to realise that he had begun to tremble violently.

Her unsteady hands slipped between them, perhaps as an initial instinct to push him away, but somehow the attempt turned into a caress. She ran her hands up his stomach and chest, over well-defined muscles (Sherlock was by no means as skinny as he looked), feeling his hot breath stutter on her skin as she brushed lightly over his nipples.

Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, she grabbed his shoulders quickly and twisted them around in a neat move to push him against the fridge (she was also a lot stronger than she looked – hauling dead bodies around had its advantages). He went a little lax under her hands, as if handing the initiative back to her. With Sherlock so apparently willing, it was so, _so_ tempting to press in again and reclaim his mouth… Her fingers itched to push under the hem of his t-shirt and _finally _explore his bare skin just as he was exploring hers, but she resisted. Instead, she stroked gently and slowly up that gloriously long slender neck as she'd so often dreamed of doing.

Her intention to calm things down seemed to be working. His head fell back, giving her space to press feathery kisses into his collarbone as he gasped, his breath coming fast and erratic.

She spoke between soothing kisses. "You know…you don't…have…to do…everything…at once."

His sigh was harsh with frustration as he glared at the ceiling; she felt the fingers splayed over the bare skin of her lower back tense and press in, leaving dents on her skin. "I don't _know_ what to do!"

She lifted her head and looked up at him, forcing him to meet her eyes. "For someone who doesn't know what they're doing, you seem to be doing a pretty good job _so_ far."

He jerked his head towards the lounge, his face suddenly icily blank, but she could read the embarrassment and misery in his eyes. "Google."

She felt her face twitch and forced the laughter back down. He would _never _forgive her if he thought she was making fun of his inexperience. To hide her confusion at this bizarre confession (had he _really _been Googling how to seduce someone?), she bent her head and pressed kisses into his chest between words. "I mean it… You…are…_brilliant_…at this. You don't need websites to help you. Trust me - you've _already _got me right where you want me."

She lifted her head and looked up at him for a long moment so he could see the honesty of her words reflected in her eyes before reaching for his mouth again. The kiss was slower this time, less urgent but somehow more intimate as they explored each other's mouths. Her hands found their way under his t-shirt but she stroked gently at the smooth skin she found her; feeling him mirror the soothing movement on her own back. His body was still thrumming with tension though and she could feel his arousal pressing into her. Clearly, he _was_ a normal man, albeit one who had suppressed his natural reactions a little too often over the years…which might explain his overheated reaction _now_.

Eventually, she gentled the kiss and stepped back with a sigh. She turned her head, pressing her ear against his chest and feeling the thud of his heart, a little faster than usual. Her own breath was pretty unsteady. "Oh yes, I'm already there…but – and _God_, I hate myself for saying this, you've no idea _how much_ \- is this _really_ the right time?"

She waited, listening to his fast breathing and letting her own breath in and out slowly to slow her heart…until eventually she felt the moment that he sagged, the high-strung tension seeping from his body.

When he spoke, his voice was hoarse and very low. "I want…" was all he managed before breaking off.

"Oh _God_, so do _I_," she murmured into his chest, but loud enough to be heard. She pulled back and looked up at him; he looked even more ruffled than usual and eminently kissable, so she stepped back even more to resist temptation. "But…I have to get out of here as soon as possible, and you said it yourself, we can't be seen together if your plan is going to work. And also I - ," she smiled, tentatively. "I want to be able to focus on _us_, and I can't do that while there's this _thing_ hanging over us. Even if I believed that you _really_ wanted to be distracted from the case, and I'm not sure that I _do_, I'd be conscious of the fact that any moment you might suddenly push me away because you'd thought of something – yes, you _would_, Sherlock," she added as he opened his mouth in apparent protest. "Don't get me wrong – it's just _you_, and I would never, _ever _want to change you, not a single thing. But let's get _this_ out of the way first."

His expression softened and he leaned forward, cupping her face to kiss her again, but very lightly. "You _are_ right. I just… You know, for the first time in about twenty years, I _wanted_ to be distracted from the Work." His face reflected the doubt in his voice. "I never thought I'd grow tired of that _moment_, right at the beginning of a case, when the possibilities are endless and I can usually _feel _the energy surging through me…"

His face darkened as his voice trailed off, and he turned away, a little restlessly. "I feel…different, Molly – and not in a good way. It's not _you_ \- this," he added, quickly, waving between them. "It's something else. I feel _tired_. Weary of – of all of it, and I've _never_ been tired of the Work. I want… I want…" He seemed to struggle before bursting out with: "I'm not sure _what_ I want!"

She grabbed his hand, pulling him back to her. "Sherlock, _listen _to me. I don't think you _are_ tired of the cases. I think you're just tired of _being the case_. Look – when we first met, you were anonymous, chipping away at mystery after mystery and enjoying the thrill of the chase. And you had John to go along for the ride. But then along came Jim Moriarty, and it stopped being fun because he drove a wedge between the two of you and eventually he made you do something utterly unspeakable to those who love you. And _then_, just when everything was getting sorted out and you could enjoy the Work again, along came Magnussen… And _now_ there's someone else. And – and it's all about power and threats and blackmail and wanting things from _you_ personally. I just think it's not _fun_ anymore and that's the real problem you have."

He looked at her, seeming a little startled by the idea. She stroked a gentle hand across his cheek, hating the expression of doubt and desperately wanting to wipe it away. "I want you back the way you were, Sherlock. I once thought that I wanted a – a _sanitised_ version of you, safe and retired and writing books about your cases, something like that…but I didn't - not _really_. Mycroft knew it. He said I was like John – attracted to danger. And he was _right_."

He winced at the mention of his brother. "Could we please _try_ not to bring my delightful brother into _every_ conversation?"

She laughed, relieved by his attempt at levity. "I'm sorry. But what I meant was, I _know_ you'll be getting into dangerous situations in the future. And you'll ignore me, and go off somewhere without telling me, and probably insult me when you lose your temper or I'm too slow to get it…but that's _you_, Sherlock. And it's _you_ that I love." She shrugged, a little self-conscious under his intent gaze. "I just mean that it – it doesn't _matter_. I'll be here, whatever you have to do… So, let's just focus on sorting out this case right now, whatever it is – so that _you_ can get back to enjoying risking life and limb and _we_ can get on with our lives."

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, having said the last few sentences in a bit of a rush. When she opened them again, he was looking at her in a wondering manner.

"I must admit I was not expecting _that_." He shook his head for a moment, as if trying to clear his thoughts before looking at her again. "Mycroft always says that caring is not an advantage. In his view, caring about others means relinquishing power to them…"

"He's wrong about _that_," she said, firmly. "Or at least…yes, I suppose that could happen, if you loved someone who was selfish or who didn't return your feelings. But then, look at _Moriarty_ – look at the amount of power he had over you, and that had _nothing _to do with love… You _can_ care about someone and want to control them, I guess…" Her mind was on Sherlock's older brother again – if there was _ever_ a case of 'controlling love'… "But it's not what _I_ think of as love. I mean, if you love someone, why on Earth would you want to change them fundamentally or try to make them sort-of _less_ than they can be, if you see what I mean?"

She could see the varying emotions on his face as he absorbed this and then a slow smile spread across it. "You're really quite an extraordinary person, Molly Hooper. Not that I hadn't already deduced that, of course," he added, quickly.

"Of _course_." She laughed again, squeezing his hand. They leaned towards each other, drawn together once more. Her eyes closed at the first touch of his lips… and then the door slammed shut downstairs, making them both jump.

He swore under his breath at the sound of feet coming up the stairs. "_Mycroft_. Even his footsteps sound unbearably smug."

There was something comfortingly familiar about the note of irritation in his voice. Even the arrogant tone had returned, suggesting he was beginning to regain his equilibrium. She decided to test it out.

"I'm _really_ going to have to learn how you do that." She heaved a mock sigh. "It would be so useful to know who's coming before they even arrive, but I just can't work out how you _know_."

He gave her a pitying look. "_Obvious_. You simply need to be more observant, Molly. The key is to look for differences between the left and right foot. In _this _case, the instep on the right shoe is slightly higher than the left, because Mycroft's feet -."

Having heard enough, she kissed him again, successfully cutting off his deduction. What began as just a quick peck to shut him up turned into a rather passionate snog on both parts with a few wandering hands… which she curtailed neatly just as the door opened by stepping back out of his reach.

She had the immense satisfaction of seeing Sherlock looking rather flustered again. Molly winked at him before turning away to greet Mycroft, not even attempting to hide her victorious grin. That was _certainly_ a fun way to shut the consulting detective up.


	21. Chapter 21

**Hope everyone had a happy Christmas! And, as always, sorry for the delay... Usual disclaimers and usual thanks to you lovely reviewers!**

* * *

**Chapter 21**

As Mycroft entered the flat and turned in their direction, his smooth gait faltered for just a fraction of a second. Face completely blank, his sharp eyes ran over Molly in an assessing manner.

She blushed bright red as she suddenly realised that not only was she still in her pyjamas and dressing gown but that said garments were in slight disarray thanks to Sherlock's manhandling of a few minutes' ago. Mycroft's mouth twitched in an odd manner as she quickly pulled the dressing around her and did up the belt again. It might have been from amusement, but she sensed a certain degree of annoyance also, before his features rearranged themselves into a more familiar expression of superiority.

"_Well well_." He addressed her very politely. "Good morning, Molly. You don't mind if I call you Molly? It seems appropriate, and you should probably call me Mycroft from now on. And, brother mine, may I congratulate you on a – _hmm _– wholly unexpected change of circumstance, shall we say?"

"_Stop_ looking so smug, Mycroft," came his brother's surly reply. "And don't make erroneous assumptions, lest you appear less intelligent, _God forbid_. Why are you here?"

Mycroft tutted. "_Please_ don't bother pretending that you don't know."

He gave Molly a meaningful glance, and Sherlock sighed. "You can say whatever you have to in front of Molly."

"Oh, you mistake me, Sherlock, I fully _intend_ to, since the matter partially concerns her. Only -," he ran his eyes over her clothing again. "- she might prefer to be more appropriately attired first?" He inclined his head towards Molly as she edged away. "_Please _do take your time, Molly. I'm sure Sherlock can entertain me in the meantime."

"Oh, _goody_," his brother growled as she hurried into the bathroom.

She showered as quickly as possible, using Sherlock's expensive-smelling shampoo and conditioner. Much to her relief, the brothers had moved into the kitchen, so didn't see her running up the stairs with a towel wrapped around her head. Due to the nature of her job, Molly was an expert at quick changes, so it only took her five minutes to pull on jeans and a jumper, towel her hair as dry as possible and comb it out. Make-up would have to wait.

She re-entered the lounge in a more decorous state. There was no sign of Sherlock, but Mycroft was still in the kitchen, making himself a cup of tea and eyeing the cupboard with suspicion.

"I sincerely hope that when you _do_ move in, you'll do something about my brother's quite appalling domestic habits," he commented as he located a box of tea-bags that looked a little battered but otherwise unharmed. "I'm not sure that it's an entirely good idea to combine experiments and food. Can I make you a cup?"

She assented and watched in fascination as he poured boiling water into 2 mugs. It seemed odd not to see Mycroft with a full bone-china tea set, but judging by the efficient manner in which he dispatched of the teabags and poured milk into the mugs, he knew his way around a kitchen.

"I live alone," he commented, as he saw her face. "Admittedly, I have a housekeeper these days, but she doesn't live in and there's still a certain degree of making do. And Mummy made sure we knew the basics before we left home. I'm not sure how much of that knowledge Sherlock has retained."

"Well, as a matter of _fact_ -," she began, a little indignant on Sherlock's behalf, but the man himself interrupted her.

"I retain as much information as I require to survive. Shall we get on with it?"

Sherlock was leaning against the kitchen doorway, his arms folded, glaring at his brother. He was positioned rather as he had been earlier when Molly was washing her mug, except that he was now dressed in a white shirt and suit trousers, and his curls had been tamed to some degree. He looked even more ridiculously attractive if that were humanly possible, and Molly looked away quickly to stop herself from drooling too obviously.

Mycroft gave his brother an acquiescent nod. As Sherlock turned back into the lounge, Molly gave the older brother a slightly tentative smile. For all Mycroft's apparently friendly comments, she had the distinct impression that he was slightly annoyed about the change in their relationship. He could hardly have been all that surprised, having been present when they first kissed, so she couldn't quite work out why he seemed so uncomfortable now.

Sherlock sat in his armchair with Mycroft sitting in John's old armchair, facing him. Molly perched on the sofa with her tea and watched with interest.

"First of all," the older brother began. "We have exhumed the body. I am told it is the body of a male in his early- to mid-thirties, of Irish descent -."

"So _you_ have Moriarty's body!" Molly exclaimed, before she could stop herself. As she was subjected to the laser-beam stares of both Holmes' men, she added quickly, "Of _course_ you have, don't mind me; _please_ do carry on."

Mycroft blinked and turned his gaze back on his brother. "DNA results on the skeleton have so far confirmed the Republic of Ireland as the most likely origin of the individual in question. But without further identification of the family…"

"You're wasting _time_," Sherlock complained, leaning back in his chair. "The body you have _is_ Moriarty. I know it. I was _there_, remember."

Mycroft paused. "It would still help to have an accurate identification. Not everyone shares my – _ahem_ – faith in your deductive abilities…"

There was a note of doubt in his voice. Sherlock gave him a speculative look.

"Which is your roundabout way of saying that you _also_ have doubts."

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock, we don't even know if Moriarty is his correct name. Oh, there are plenty of 'Moriarty's' in the world, even plenty of 'James Moriarty's'. But for all you know, he may have changed his name, or picked the name of a deceased individual from the same part of Ireland. And we have no DNA evidence from his earlier encounters with you and John. There is nothing to connect him with that murdered schoolboy Carl Powers either – oh, I'm not denying that he _was_ responsible, but we have only his word as evidence, which could hardly be described as reliable. How can we be _absolutely_ sure he is the man that killed himself on that roof?"

"_I _am sure! I told you yesterday – I looked into his eyes, and they were the eyes of a psychopath, _not_ some frightened actor. _That_ man was undoubtedly the same man who kidnapped John and threatened to blow him up at the pool. And it's the same man that I testified against in court – and the same man that had a unique insider knowledge of the circumstances of Powers' murder." Sherlock shook his head, emphatically. "I _cannot_ – I _am not_ – mistaken about that, whatever his name turns out to be."

Mycroft shrugged. "Ah well, investigations are continuing nonetheless. And so you are convinced that this latest act was instigated by…_her_?"

"Absolutely." Molly could see no trace of the uncertain lover in this version of Sherlock; the consulting detective was on 'home turf' right now and utterly confident in his knowledge. He leaned back nonchalantly in his chair, giving Mycroft a look every bit as superior as the older man's.

"You seem supremely confident, as always." Mycroft had a brittle smile on his face. "It would therefore surprise you to learn that it would be _impossible_ for Ms Adler to be involved, since she is currently in a deep undercover role for the CIA and has no access to the resources she would require for such an undertaking?"

Sherlock shot forward in his chair. "That's _impossible_! It's _undoubtedly _her. The whole thing reeks of her – motivation, choice of target. It's a woman's hand. It's _her_ hand."

"But she lacks opportunity."

"Then she found a way around their security," Sherlock stated, firmly. "Of all people, _she_ could."

Mycroft shrugged again. "Be that as it may…some eighteen months' ago, Ms Adler was offered a deal that she could not refuse." He wrinkled his nose slightly. "Frankly it was that or…well, let's just say that a high-security prison with hard labour would have been the _soft_ option. And I am assured by my colleagues there that there is not a _single_ trace of her involvement in this latest act. She may have had contacts carrying out the operation under instruction; that is true," he added, as Sherlock opened his mouth, "- but you and I both know that that is not her usual _modus operandi_. Ms Adler favours a rather more _personal _touch."

Sherlock frowned, seeming to consider this seriously. He leaned back in his chair again, bringing his steepled fingers to his chin in a familiar manner. Molly recognised his 'deductive' mode and suspected that he had already started sifting through his famous mind palace. He was evidently trying to work out how his chief suspect – Ms Adler? – had got around CIA security.

Mycroft turned a serious face towards Molly. "Which brings me to _you_, Molly. First of all, your flat and workplace are secure, so there are no concerns _there_. I'm assuming you wish to smuggle her out of Baker Street?" He addressed his question to Sherlock without taking his eyes off Molly. Again, she had the impression that he was disappointed in her for some reason.

"Hmm?" Sherlock was preoccupied, frowning into space. "Oh, yes, that's the intention."

"I see." Mycroft didn't attempt to hide his displeasure. "I am a _little_ surprised that you have chosen to involve Molly in this matter. Was that entirely wise?"

Sherlock's eyes shot to Mycroft, suddenly alert again. "Who else would be suitable? She's a woman, we have a personal history, and she's believed by _some _to be in unrequited love with me."

Molly glanced at him, reflecting that it was lucky she already knew him to be a chameleon, quick to take on a new persona. If not, she'd have been far more discomforted by the cold, indifferent tone and the haughty mask.

"Set a thief to catch a thief, hmm?" Mycroft folded his arms. "That only works if you are correct as to the identity of the suspect. If you are mistaken -."

"I'm _not_," his brother interrupted, impatiently.

"If you _are_ mistaken," Mycroft continued, frowning at him, "- the risks are considerable...for _both_ of you."

Sherlock leaned closer to his brother, his face icy. "_I. Am. Not. Wrong_. When have you known my judgement to be impaired?"

Silently, Mycroft allowed his eyes to shift towards Molly for the briefest of moments.

She stood up, suddenly needing some space. "I – um, I'd better go and sort out -." She waved her hands vaguely and hurried out of the lounge and up the stairs without looking back.

She looked around a little mournfully at the possessions she had spread about the spare room only yesterday in an attempt to make it look more home-like. It now seemed pretty stupid to have unpacked everything for what, in retrospect, was obviously going to be one night only. Even if they hadn't had this case hanging over them like a malevolent shadow, she wouldn't have been able to stay any longer, especially with Toby to see to.

Mycroft appeared to think it was a foregone conclusion that she would be moving into Baker Street eventually, but all of a sudden she couldn't visualise it. The comfortable domesticity of last night and this morning seemed like nothing more than a brief novelty rather than mere reality. As her eyes ran uncertainly over her possessions, she couldn't imagine anyone but John living here. It had seemed so _right_, so natural… She could imagine it – the Sherlock-and-John team, well into their sixties or seventies with white hair and rheumatic fingers, still sitting in their comfortable old armchairs, mulling over a case. Try though she may, she could not replace John's image with an older version of herself.

Heaving a sigh, she retrieved her suitcase and quickly started putting clothes, books and toiletries in it. She assumed that Mycroft would have a plan for getting her out of here unnoticed and she didn't want to keep him waiting.

"You might as well keep some of it here."

She jumped and turned around. Sherlock was leaning against the doorframe, watching her every move.

He shrugged at her look of inquiry. "I presume your intention is to move in anyway."

"Is it?" she asked, trying to sound casual. "Um, I mean, we haven't really talked about it, so…"

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair impatiently, making it stand on end again. "_Look_, I can do without all this – this _fumbling_ around. This _politeness_. It's a waste of time. You want to move to 221B, and I have no objections, so why all the pointless dissimulation?"

"I rushed into something before…and look how _that _turned out," she pointed out, quietly.

"Yes, that was foolish and short-sighted of you, to become engaged to and move in with someone you didn't love and had no real commitment to," he responded airily and then frowned when she gasped in indignation at the words. "_Well_? It's true."

"But – but you didn't even care! You approved of Tom!"

"Well, I wouldn't say _approved_ \- ."

"Yes you did!" She pointed an accusing finger at him. "In the hospital, you said you were sorry we'd split up. You said I should ask him to take me back for – what was it? A chance for 'domesticity, safety'…"

"And _you_ added 'boredom' to the list," he pointed out, watching her carefully.

She walked over to him, not taking her eyes off his. "And _you_ said 'don't underestimate it'."

"True." He shrugged again. "I live a dangerous, unpredictable life. It's very far from boring. I do not like children and I detest domesticity. I will be selfish, Molly; I will upset you, I will insult you, I may even have to leave you for long periods of time – and I might not bother to tell you in advance. My habits are irregular and deeply annoying - even offensive, according to John. And -," he gave her a significant look, "- Molly, I will put you in the way of danger if it suits me to do so, as it does at the moment. But you already _knew _all that, didn't you?"

"Yes," she agreed. He was describing nothing that he hadn't done before, after all. Was she mad to be even _considering _spending her life with him? She'd never be able to relax. She'd always be on tenterhooks, wondering whether he was going to come home – and when he did, what kind of mood he would be in. She might never be completely happy. She couldn't bring children into such a life, so that would be a sacrifice she would have to make, although truthfully she hadn't ever given much consideration to becoming a mother. And what of her career? Would she ever get the chance to qualify as a pathologist or would both her personal and professional life be dominated by Sherlock's needs and wants, much as John's had been prior to the fall at Bart's?

But on the other hand…Mycroft had said it, hadn't he, when he'd made the observation that his brother seemed to be surrounded by people who were addicted to danger. Even John had continued to spend time with Sherlock after his marriage (although presumably he would take a step back now that he was a father – wouldn't he?). Was she any better than John in that sense?

Sherlock's sharp eyes raked her face, taking in her questions and doubts in his usual perceptive manner. "So…" He gave her his crooked smile, the one that always spelt _danger_. "You've had a chance to consider your options. You can say 'no' if you want to, and walk away right now. Focus on your career. Find another Tom and have a family. Be happy. I wouldn't blame you… But, tell me - do you want to be _bored_, Molly Hooper?"

Casting her doubts aside, she smiled up at him. "_Never_."

* * *

In the end, she didn't leave anything behind. It seemed like a bad idea, because the mysterious Ms Adler had apparently let herself into 221B in the past and there was a small chance that she might try the same stunt. It wouldn't help if she discovered any of Molly's possessions there. In any case, Molly felt that if she was going to pretend that she was estranged from Sherlock, it would be easier to make a complete break.

Sherlock had carried her heavy suitcase down the stairs for her. Mycroft, waiting just inside the front door, raised his eyebrows at the sight of his brother being polite for a change and then raised them even further when Sherlock handed him the scruffy case with a smirk.

He passed it quickly on to a shadowy minion who Molly hadn't noticed lurking in the shadows. "Wait for us outside."

The man nodded and disappeared, not out of the front door as Molly expected but along a small dark passageway alongside the stairs towards the back of 221.

Mycroft looked at his brother wearily as he pulled on his gloves. "I _would_ ask you not to do anything foolish, but I know I would be wasting my time. I do hope, however, that you will take my concerns under consideration."

"For heaven's sake, Mycroft, just _leave_ and let me get on with my job."

The older brother wrinkled his aristocratic nose slightly. "And _yet_ he still expects me to run his little errands for him," he said aloud, apparently to the air.

"And you _don't_, brother mine?" Sherlock replied, his voice dangerously soft.

Mycroft glared as he picked up his umbrella. "If I expected you to show the _least _degree of patriotic interest…"

"I'll leave that to _you_, since you're so much better at it than I," Sherlock interrupted, smoothly. "Will you give us a minute?"

His brother sighed in a put-upon manner and walked off in the same direction as his assistant. "Don't take long."

Sherlock waited until he disappeared before turning to Molly, his face serious. "Remember what I've told you. Stay away from that chatroom. Just go back to work, get on with your life and wait. She will get in contact quite soon."

"What do I do when that happens?" She felt a shiver of fear go through her. "What will she want from me?"

"She won't harm you. She wants to get to _me_. Either to destroy me or, more likely, to gain power over me," he continued in a matter-of-fact manner. "She will see you as a way in – she will think you resent me enough to do what she wants you to do, and she will assume that I won't see you as a threat. She will befriend you – she can be very sympathetic and charming when she wants to be."

"How will I know it's her?"

"You'll know – believe me." He paused and looked down, seeming unsure whether to go on, before meeting her eyes again. "You…have seen her before. In the mortuary on Christmas night. Or, rather, her double."

"_What_?" For a moment she didn't understand…and then she remembered that gleaming white body again and the oddly blank look on Sherlock's face as he identified the dead woman. Oddly, she wanted to laugh – not _another_ faked death, surely? But, on the other hand, she'd helped Sherlock do the same thing, so she knew how it could be achieved.

So…that beautiful, perfect young woman with the polished nails and the raven hair was the mysterious Ms. Adler who seemed so fascinated by Sherlock… After a moment, she wondered why she hadn't realised before.

"And how do I contact you?"

"You _don't_. Unless it's a matter of life or death. You have to go along with whatever she wants you to do. Seem reluctant at first, but let her talk you around eventually. Mycroft's people will be watching you, ready to pull you out if things get too dangerous."

Her heart sank at the prospect of being alone. "What – what will she want me to do?"

His face softened. "She may ask you to plant something on me. Nothing dangerous, possibly a camera or some hidden recording equipment. She might want you to bring something to the flat. If she does, it's important that you – _we_ – stay in character, because she'll be listening. And she'll talk to you about me; she may try to find something that she can use against me." He paused. "In particular, she may make implications about my relationship with John. She's looking for weak points. My friendship with him – presumed by many to be more than mere friendship – is considered to be a weak point. Both Moriarty and Magnussen used that… Do you think you can manage?"

She lifted her chin. "Yes."

"Good. I'll contact you when I can." He cupped her cheek and leaned forward to kiss her, lingeringly. "You'll be _fine_, Molly Hooper," he whispered in her ear, before kissing her again.

A meaningful cough indicated Mycroft's silent presence, and they stepped apart. The older Holmes' brother stepped out of the shadows.

"You need to come with me _now_, Molly," he instructed firmly, and she nodded, giving Sherlock a last longing look before turning to follow Mycroft.

The back passageway led into a small yard, almost surrounded by the brick walls of the buildings adjacent to 221 Baker Street, except for one narrow access way. She followed Mycroft closely down this gloomy alleyway; he paused near the end of it and grasped her arm. After a moment, he said something quietly, apparently to no one, although she guessed he must have some kind of hidden phone. Her guess was confirmed when he nodded in response to an unheard reply and stepped out onto the street, pulling her behind him. Within seconds, she was safely seated in the back of the inevitable limousine.

Looking out of the tinted window as the car moved off smoothly into the traffic, she could see that they hadn't emerged onto Baker Street at all, but onto Bickenhall Street, which ran at right-angles to it.

"I assume -," Mycroft broke the slightly tense silence, "- that you wish to be taken home immediately?"

"Um, yes, I suppose so." It had been on the tip of her tongue to say that she'd like to visit John and Mary and their new daughter, but she felt that it might be unfair to turn up quite so soon after the birth. And, in any case, she was keen to get away from Mycroft as soon as possible. He seemed more hostile now than he had in the flat.

She surprised herself by asking, quite suddenly, "Why are you angry with me? Is it because of me and Sherlock? You must have known this was on the cards; I mean, you even predicted it, ages ago. Am I – am I _really_ so bad for him?"

He paused, before answering heavily. "No. I don't disapprove of _you_, Molly."

"Then what is it?"

"I _had _hoped you might be more of a steadying influence on him." There was quiet anger in Mycroft's voice – anger combined with heavy resignation. "Instead, not only is he playing another dangerous game with an as-yet unidentified enemy, but he is involving _you _in his game." He shook his head. "I'm not sure you appreciate just how dangerous this might be for you."

"I'm not stupid," she said, quietly. "I've been there before, remember? I know what Sherlock's life is like - what the risks are."

"Do you?" he replied, equally quietly. His head was bowed and she was struck by his air of desolation. "I don't know that you _do_. He is making an error this time, I am sure of it. He is _wrong_ about Ms. Adler."

She was ridiculously irritated by the sense of certainty in Mycroft's voice. "Since when has he been wrong? You've doubted him before and he's turned out to be right."

"_Doubted_ him?" Mycroft looked up at her suddenly. "I've _never_ doubted his abilities. Disapproved of his methods _certainly_, despised his behaviour _definitely_, but I know what my brother is capable of. But he is allowing _sentiment_ to cloud his judgement this time. He is making assumptions that are not sufficiently backed up by the facts."

"And you blame _me_ for that," she stated, bitterly. "It's my fault that he's off his game, I suppose."

She noticed that he didn't deny it. "It was inevitable." His voice was resigned. "My brother has the ability to be a considerable force for good – just so long as he is not distracted. But first _John_ and now _you _have proved a distraction. I told him a very long time ago that caring was not an advantage. In a purely tactical sense, I am correct. Caring led to his downfall once; it will do so again if he is not careful."

"Then if it's so bad for him to care, why did you _ever_ encourage me?" She looked out of the window, seeing the streets blur as she fought back tears.

"I did _not _encourage you," he said, after a pause. "I only reflected on what I knew to be inevitable. Oh, when I first met you, I had no sense _at all_ that you would be anything other than a rather silly woman with an inconvenient crush on my brother. It was the fall and your role in it that convinced me otherwise. I knew _then_ that there was a significance to Sherlock's trust in you. Potentially, he _could_ have kept you out of it; he could have found a way of achieving his goal without involving you. My brother _hates_ working with someone else, so that would usually have been his preference. But in his moment of greatest need, it was _not_ his instinct to work alone. Even if _he_ didn't realise it back then, _I _knew that you were – that you _would _be – important to him."

"You could have…got rid of me," she observed in the silence that followed.

"Once more, you over-estimate my powers," was his terse response.

Sooner than she expected, the car drew to a halt outside her block of flats. She waited while one of his assistants got out of the front passenger seat, removed her suitcase from the boot and walked towards the front door, looking from left to right. When he nodded towards the car, Molly made to get out, but Mycroft put a restraining hand on her arm. "Do _not_ attempt to contact Sherlock, however tempting it might be. You will put yourself at greater risk if you act _in any way_ out of the ordinary."

She nodded, but hesitated when she saw the strained look on his face. She realised, belatedly, that although he was seeking to hide his feelings behind his usual smooth manner, Mycroft was quite genuinely afraid for her. The realisation made her pause – if even _Mycroft _was frightened, what was she getting herself into?

"I'm going to be fine." She tried to force a smile onto her face. "I won't take any unnecessary risks, I promise. But Sherlock is right, he _has_ to be. He's never let any of us down before, has he?"

He nodded in agreement, and she got out of the car. But as she moved away, just before the door closed, she heard his quiet reply. "Indeed he hasn't…yet."


	22. Chapter 22

**Dear readers, I am SO sorry for keeping you waiting so long! I've been having a bit of a writing crisis (about this story anyway), in addition to one or two family crises such as illnesses etc. A shout out to likingthistoomuch for reminding me that that the story **_**will**_** come...eventually. I think we're back on track now. Thank you for your patience.**

**Couple of notes for non-UK readers: one of the characters is described as 'Mancunian', meaning she comes from Manchester in North-West England. Southern English accents are often perceived as 'cold' and formal (think Sherlock's accent) while the accents of Northerners are thought to sound 'warmer' and more friendly. **

**The UCAS clearings – UCAS is the method by which 17-18 year olds apply to University. After an interview, you may be given an offer of a place subject to achieving certain grades in your A-level exams; if you don't achieve the necessary grades, you apply again through the UCAS 'clearings' for a university course with lower requirements. BTW, to do a medical degree, you might be expected to achieve four A-levels with A* (the highest grade) in at least two of them, possibly Biology and another science (it varies but the majority of students take 3-5 A-levels between the ages of 16 and 18).**

**I'm sure the 'Goth' culture is universal but just in case: it's a post-punk sub-culture in Britain (and other countries). Their appearance is usually characterised by heavy black and white make-up designed to make the wearer look pale and romantic. They also wear black clothes and symbolic jewellery.**

**Usual disclaimers and thanks to all you reviewers, including the lovely guest reviewers who I can't thank personally.**

* * *

**Chapter 22**

Molly didn't know what to expect when she returned to work the following day.

Would Ms. Adler contact her in person or by text or e-mail? Would she be direct in her approach; would she say that she'd read Molly's comments in the chatroom and wanted to sympathise with her, having also had her advances rejected by the consulting detective? It was likely that she'd be more subtle than that, engineering a chance meeting and then building up her level of contact before Sherlock's name even came up.

Molly at least had _some_ advantage on her side – she had an idea of what the woman would look like. To be certain, as soon as she had a moment to herself, she pulled up the records on a certain Irene Adler. Even though she now knew the body to be someone else's, it must have resembled Adler to a certain degree. She was a woman in her mid-thirties who had been brutally bludgeoned to death by persons unknown. A woman who appeared to have no family, since she was formally identified by a non-relative.

Thoughtfully, she clicked through the forensic photographs. She had no clear idea of the woman's face as it had been so badly damaged, but she gave careful attention to her height and weight, her glossy black hair and her delicate hands and feet with their beautifully kept nails. Did Sherlock know back _then_ that this was not Irene Adler; that she was still alive? And if so, had he been in on her deception or had there been something about the body that had alerted him? Her insides churned at the thought of Sherlock being so intimately familiar with the woman's body. Even though he'd certainly never slept with Irene Adler, he must have seen her naked before her faked death. Was it just his extreme observational skills or had he – did he _still_ – fantasize about that perfect body?

Blinking quickly to dislodge such disquieting thoughts, she closed the record and tried Googling Adler's name, but nothing useful came up. Nevertheless, she was sure that she'd be able to recognise Irene Adler when she _did_ show up, by her innate elegance and sense of style if nothing else.

In the meantime, she tried to carry on as normal. Toby had been retrieved from her neighbour and was safely back in his usual place. A cat of habit, he was clearly a little sulky about being moved away. She had study modules to catch up with in addition to her usual work, and her first set of exams loomed just after Easter.

And she visited John, Mary and little Eleanor Rose – as she was 'officially' on friendly terms with the Watsons, having attended their wedding, she didn't think it would be seen as abnormal for her to do that.

She was relieved to see that although they were as sleep-deprived and shell-shocked as any other new parents, John and Mary looked happy. John in particular looked far less strained than he had done earlier in Mary's pregnancy, and Molly could only assume that whatever shadow had been over the couple, it had now been lifted permanently.

They didn't discuss Sherlock at all. Eleanor dominated the topic of conversation. The number of hours she had gone between feeds during the previous night, how much weight she'd put on since her birth, and the meaning behind every cry and every (suspiciously windy-looking) smile – all seemed of the utmost importance to the doting new parents. The only other topic that came up was the chaos caused by the mass department store break-in.

London seemed to settle down surprisingly quickly following the event. Inevitably, there was a degree of amusement as well as moral outrage provoked by the scenes of people fighting over electronic goods and designer clothes. The more outrageous CCTV clips appeared on news quiz shows and chat shows, with no end of quips from comedians. General opinion seemed to be that the big stores made enough of a profit out of the hard-working public as it was, so good luck to those who'd been lucky enough to carry off something. Molly wondered whether the public would be so tolerant if it happened a second time or if the victims were supermarkets such as Sainsbury's, Tesco and ASDA, the providers of more basic necessities.

She hadn't been in touch with Greg beyond a couple of hasty texts, but he was apparently working around the clock, as were the rest of the Met in trying to recover the stolen goods and bring the perpetrators to justice. With so many people involved, it was a matter of scanning hours of CCTV footage and prioritising the identification of the worst offenders – those who had attacked the security guards or inflicted casual violence on other thieves or on property. One of the guards was in hospital with life-threatening head injuries; others had suffered broken bones. Greg's team, who wouldn't usually be concerned with mere theft, were focusing on the most violent crimes and had arrested some suspects.

She assumed there was also frantic activity going on in the security services to identify who had deactivated the security systems and how. It had been clear that Mycroft had no idea and doubted Sherlock's assertion that it must have been Irene Adler. She wondered what progress, if any, had been made. And she went on wondering exactly _when_ Adler would make her appearance.

"Cuppa, Molly?"

She jumped at the sudden voice and dropped the slide she was currently loading.

"Oops, sorry. Didn't mean to disturb you." Rosie gave her a sympathetic grimace. "Hope it's salvageable?"

"Don't worry, it'll be fine." Molly retrieved the slide, which had fortuitously landed back in its container. It wasn't vital anyway, as she had only been verifying previously analysed blood samples to practice for a test on the unit she was currently studying. She smiled at the junior laboratory assistant. "I'd love a coffee."

"Right-o."

The girl loped out of the laboratory, her long black ponytail, shot through with vibrant blue streaks, swinging from side to side as she went. Molly had to suppress a grin. Rosie Perry was a bubbly, young Mancunian science graduate; not very experienced, but she was learning fast. The Goth make-up had been a bit of a shock at first (it didn't seem to fit either her name or her personality) and not everyone appreciated her sense of humour, which was morbid even by the standards of the forensic pathology team, but her enthusiasm couldn't be denied. She was already miles more efficient than her predecessor, Curtis Norton, who had thankfully moved to another job.

Rosie returned just as Molly had finished her analysis of the slide's contents and was busy scribbling the results in a notebook, so she could compare with the original pathology report. "Is it interesting?" she asked as she slid Molly's mug in her direction.

"Hmm? Well, yes, I guess so." Molly blew on her scalding coffee before sipping it. "I like solving mysteries."

"Oh yeah, so do I." Rosie perched on a stool on the other side of the lab table, apparently settling in for a chat. One of her faults was that she could be talkative, something that she received an occasional mild rebuke for. Normally Molly would have diplomatically guided her in the direction of some basic task that needed doing, but it _was_ after five on a Friday afternoon. Rosie was still on duty, but that was someone else's problem, not Molly, who had already finished work for the day.

"One mystery I'd _love_ to solve," the girl continued in her gentle Northern accent, "is why you aren't already a qualified pathologist?"

"Oh, there's no great mystery. I trained as a librarian first, but didn't like it, and then had a change of career."

"_Really_?" Rosie seemed surprised. "Only, you're such a natural at what you do, I can't believe you didn't always want to do it. What attracted you in the first place?"

Molly paused in her writing, considering. She couldn't really quite remember her motivations, not prior to meeting Sherlock at any rate. "I don't know. Just fell into it, I think."

"I think I _always_ wanted to work in pathology," the girl said, after a moment of silence.

"Oh? Why didn't you go down the medical degree route then?"

Rosie shrugged. "Applied to Edinburgh but didn't make the grades. To be honest, I wasn't all that sorry as it seemed like a lot of hard work at the time. But I was a bit desperate to get _something_, so I looked into UCAS clearings and found a vacancy on the Biological Sciences course at Reading. It was better than nothing, and I could specialise in human pathology in the final year. And once I was down this way, I didn't want to go back up north, so I moved to London. And here I am."

She smiled and Molly found herself returning the smile. Rosie was one of those people that it was simply impossible not to like. She picked up her pen and bent her head over her notes again.

After a few minutes, Rosie broke the silence. "So...you must get to meet some interesting people here?"

Bewildered, Molly looked up at her. "In a _morgue_?"

The girl giggled. "Ah, no, but I meant the police detectives coming in and all that. It must be really interesting to help them solve murders. Bit like Silent Witness or something."

Molly winced involuntarily at the mention of the popular but wildly inaccurate BBC forensic drama. "Well, you know, we don't really solve murders, as such," she said, diplomatically. "We just provide the facts they need. Most of the time, it's not really that exciting."

"Yeah, but it helps them, doesn't it? That must be very satisfying. And some of them are kinda cute. Take that DI Dimmock, he was in here the other day…"

Molly had to stifle a giggle at the thought of Ian Dimmock being described as 'cute'. It was true he could be good fun, and clearly Sally found him attractive enough under the influence of dodgy punch, but _really_…?

She briefly tuned out of Rosie's chatter as her thoughts flew automatically to Sherlock, chuckling to herself as she imagined his reaction to Rosie's crush on Dimmock. She kept doing that – thinking of little snippets that she could amuse him with…except that she _couldn't _right now.

It felt _odd_ this time around. For years, she could have contacted Sherlock any time (if she'd wanted to be brushed off or insulted), and then there'd been the years when she couldn't… And she'd coped _then_, better than she'd expected to, especially after Mycroft had indicated that he knew. She ought to be able to cope now.

He was keeping a very low profile – she half expected to see his name in the news, described as 'advising the police', as had happened in the past, but there was nothing. She wondered what he was spending his time doing – was he out and about, actively trying to track down Adler before _she_ contacted _him_? Was he working with Mycroft on the security system hack, trying to work out how Adler did it?

She tuned back in to Rosie's babble as the girl mentioned the man himself. "And then there's that famous detective bloke – Sherlock Holmes. It must be lots of fun working with _him_."

Molly said vaguely, "Oh, I never really worked _with _him as such…" Striving to stay outwardly calm, her heart began to speed up.

"Don't you? I mean, the others say he always asks for you when he comes in."

She carefully annotated her notes, keeping her head bent over them. "That was just to ask where things are. But anyway he never comes in here these days."

"Oh? That's a shame. I was sort-of hoping to meet him. Would be a bit like bumping into a celebrity. And he's _definitely_ cute. Reminds me of Bryon with all that dark romantic hair and that swishing coat. Like out of a Victorian gothic novel - Heathcliff or something."

Molly raised her head and glanced casually at Rosie as she took another sip of her coffee. Could _this_ be 'her'? But Rosie was far too young, and looking into her guileless green eyes, it didn't seem possible. If she _was _Irene Adler, the woman was an extraordinarily talented actress; nothing, from her short, bitten nails to her ungainly habit of slouching, seemed to suggest the elegant polished woman that Molly imagined Adler to be. Also, Rosie was much taller than the 5' 3" height description given in the medical record for 'Irene Adler' and, while not exactly overweight, was far chunkier, her hands squarer and less delicate looking.

"You wouldn't like him," she said, casually. "He's not very nice to people – women in particular. He was always pretty brutal to me."

"Mmm?" Rosie sighed wistfully, looking into her mug. "It must be worth it, though. Even being insulted, just to look into those dreamy eyes…"

Suddenly Molly disliked the girl intensely. Had _she_ ever been daft enough to believe that? Embarrassed, she recalled her early encounters with Sherlock and reflected that yes, she really _had_ thought it was worth the pain simply to get the attention, however brief and scathing.

"Yes, well, the reality is not so charming," she replied, quietly.

"Oh God, listen to me going on!" Rosie grimaced. "I'm sorry – my big mouth…"

"It's OK." She bent her head over her work again.

"It's my biggest fault," the girl continued, conversationally. "Me big brother's always going on at me about it."

"You have a brother?" Molly asked out of politeness rather than any genuine interest in Rosie's family.

"Yeah, it's just the two of us now. We were taken into care when I was a baby. Dad pushed off and Mum was drinking a lot... She died five years ago."

Molly paused. "I'm sorry to hear that," she said, carefully.

Rosie shrugged and got up. "It's OK, we had each other and foster care wasn't so bad. I'd better get on – I can see Dr Stamford giving me the eye. Nice to chat with you!"

"Yes." Molly watched as Rosie strode away, calling a casual greeting to one of the night shift staff who had just arrived. The man, usually grumpy and taciturn when on night duty, returned her smile.

Molly rubbed her chin, thoughtfully. Rosie was certainly a charmer, which Sherlock had mentioned as being one of Irene Adler's characteristics. However, she couldn't imagine Adler transforming into a slightly clumsy, good-natured but bumbling student in her early 20s. She might be _working_ for Adler, of course…

"Hey, Mike -," she said as Stamford walked past her table, "– um, do you know anything about Rosie's background? No – it's not that important, I just wondered…"

* * *

From what she could establish from Mike, there was nothing particularly suspicious in Rosie's background. She seemed exactly as she had described herself to Molly – her reference from her University tutor checked out, and her given family contacts were described as her former foster parents. There was no mention made of her brother, but then it was possible that he wasn't so easy to contact as her foster parents. Apart from that, there was nothing for Molly to be suspicious about.

Of course she had no way of contacting Sherlock to get his opinion, which was proving to be more frustrating than she could have imagined. It wasn't just – or even chiefly - that she missed his presence. She was irritated by her inability to work out whether or not there was something suspicious about Rosie. Sherlock, or even Mycroft, would probably be able to tell her in seconds. Without their advice, she had to try to seek out Rosie's company without being too obvious about it and she had no real idea of whether or not she was wasting her time.

It wasn't that difficult to strike up a closer acquaintance with the girl; she was always happy to stop for a coffee and a chat – particularly about Sherlock. Molly was able to provide her with a few juicy tales of odd murders, Sherlock's bizarre experiments and the arguments he'd had with Greg Lestrade over various corpses. She tried to portray herself as a starry-eyed observer, but peppered her tales with the occasional bitter comment about not feeling appreciated.

Rosie wasn't such bad company really. She was chatty and a bit girlish at times, but she also had a strong interest in Victorian romantic poetry and fiction and Pre-Raphaelite art; in particular, a fascination with the novels of Mary Shelley and the Bronte sisters. Molly supposed it fit in with her Goth lifestyle.

She seemed to equate Sherlock with the brooding Victorian heroes she spent much of her spare time reading about. However, Molly couldn't seem to find anything more to her obsession with the detective than simply _that_ – a harmless crush. After a couple of weeks' probing, she began to be of the opinion that she _was_ wasting her time.

She eventually came to the same conclusion about the over-friendly and slightly creepy occupational therapy student who insisted on sitting with her in the canteen one evening…and the middle-aged American man who moved into the vacant flat on the 2nd floor…and the elderly woman who bumped into her at Sainsbury's and started chatting volubly about her grandchildren in between muddle-headed apologies…

In the end, none of them seemed remotely connected to Irene Adler. She began to wonder whether, in fact, any of them had anything to do with Mycroft. She wouldn't put it past the older Holmes' brother to put her under surveillance and 'forget' to warn her.

And so the weeks passed, and nothing happened…

* * *

Irene Adler, if Sherlock _was_ right about her being the perpetrator of the security system hack, didn't seem inclined to repeat the stunt. Nevertheless, bearing in mind Sherlock's comments about supermarkets, Molly found herself stockpiling in a minor way – rather guiltily stocking up on cat food, tins, dried milk, flour, and so on. She didn't dare warn anyone to do likewise, although she rather sheepishly turned up at John and Mary's flat one day bearing a hamper filled with baby essentials as a 'present'.

Once the first flush of fatherhood had worn off (and his paternity leave was over), John had turned his mind to external matters. His job at the GP surgery wasn't challenging enough to stop him wondering what was happening with his friend. It was true that Sherlock didn't always involve him in cases these days, but John had grown used to popping into Baker Street from time to time and often got drawn in to some mystery or other. That hadn't happened since Eleanor's birth and the doctor was clearly getting restless. From what Molly could ascertain, he had visited Baker Street twice recently, but Sherlock hadn't been around and Mrs Hudson hadn't known where he was.

Sherlock had apparently popped in to see John and Mary more than a few times. Naturally, he had professed limited interest in his little goddaughter (and had been critical of the 'godparent' terminology altogether since it was evident that the role had very little to do with a deity, should one exist). He hadn't brought any gifts, but just before he left on the first occasion, he'd handed Mary the documents for a bank account set up on Eleanor's behalf and containing several thousand pounds. Molly smiled as Mary related this with an amused twinkle in her eye – how very typical of Sherlock to take an interest in John's daughter's well-being while all the time denying any fondness for children!

"He seemed a bit preoccupied," John said as he handed Molly a cup of coffee.

"Well, I suppose he's working on that Moriarty thing, isn't he? Or the security hack, assuming they're connected."

"Hmm. Weird thing is that he hasn't asked me for help." The words sounded casual, but there was a hard note in John's voice that suggested he was more than a little troubled.

"Well, why would he? He wants to work alone on this… Um, I mean, he probably thinks that you're too busy, you know, what with Ellie to look after and going back to work," she added, quickly as she noticed John and Mary sharing a significant look.

"You seem to know a bit about it," Mary said slowly. "Do you want to hold her now? She's finished feeding – _and_ burping."

Molly took the contentedly sleeping baby from Mary, settling her in the crook of her arm and looking down at her a little uncertainly. She'd never been great with babies or young children.

"I don't really know anything," she said, slowly.

"But you stayed at Baker Street the night that Ellie was born?" John pressed her. "You must have _some_ idea of what he thinks."

"It's not _that_. I just -." She stopped, unsure what to say.

"I think what Molly is _trying_ to say -," Mary broke in, "- is that she _does _know what Sherlock is up to, and he's told her to keep quiet. Or…has he involved you too, Molly?"

She hesitated before nodding reluctantly, still starting at Eleanor to avoid their attention.

"You mustn't allow him to put you in danger," John said, after a pause. "I know he can be persuasive, but this isn't _your_ fight, Molly."

"But it -," she began, and then stopped quickly.

There was another tense silence.

"_What_ were you about to say?" John's tone was hard, almost military in nature. She looked up in surprise, half expecting to see Captain John Watson glaring back at her. "Were you going to say that it _is_ your fight? What does that _mean_? Molly, _tell me_."

She looked at him silently for a moment, before shaking her head firmly. "I _can't_," she managed to choke out.

He turned away and began to pace the room furiously, muttering under his breath. Molly stared at him – she'd heard stories of 'Captain Watson' turning on the authority when he needed to, mainly from Greg, but it had never been _her_ experience of John.

"_John_." Mary's voice was hard; an unexpected tone of warning.

He paused, looking at her. Something complicated passed between them – an unspoken communication that gave Molly goose-bumps. She would almost have said that there was something _professional_ in their silent interaction. Just how involved _was_ Mary in Sherlock's situation?

John sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair. "What is he playing at now, _damn him_? What isn't he telling me? And why is he involving _her_?"

He turned away from Mary and seemed to dance on his toes for a moment as if trying to find a direction for his restless energy before striding over to the nearest wall.

He gazed at it for a moment before punching it violently with a clenched fist. Molly jumped and looked guiltily down at Ellie, but the baby continued to sleep in her arms, sweetly unaware.

John turned around and leaned on the wall, observing his bruised knuckles with an undecipherable expression on his face.

Mary broke the tense silence. "We talked about this, John. We decided that Ellie came first, no matter what -."

"_I know that_!" John glared at her. "Don't you think that the _last_ thing I want is for anything to happen to her? Or you? But Sherlock…"

"Sherlock _what_?" demanded his wife. "I know what you _want_ to do – go rushing in and demand that he tells you what's going on, that he includes you in his plans. Because that's what you _always_ do." Her voice softened. "I understand – I really do. You don't want him rushing off by himself again. But don't you think that, by _now_, you should be able to trust him to make the right decision?"

John glanced at his daughter. "He's excluding me from his plans because of _her_. He's trying to be…_responsible_." He laughed bitterly.

Mary sighed impatiently. "Maybe, but if that were the only reason – if Sherlock _has_ suddenly developed a conscience about his friends' safety - then why on earth is he involving _Molly_?"

Molly squirmed uncomfortably under the scrutiny of two sets of eyes. It was a question she had been asking herself in her darker moments, especially when she recalled Mycroft's ominous parting comment… although when it came down it, she supposed she'd rather be involved than not, even if it _was_ dangerous. She began to understand John's point of view.

Sherlock _did_ care. Certainly about John and Mary and their baby, probably about Greg, for all that he affected to forget the man's name, and _definitely_ about her. Even now, there was a sense of delicious unreality about that fact that made her shiver every time she considered it. Whatever Mycroft may think, Sherlock _wouldn't _risk the people he cared about…and that was the big difference between him and Mycroft. Mycroft couldn't _understand_ because he couldn't _love_. What was it he'd said in the car – something that he'd told Sherlock a long time ago?

_Caring is not an advantage_. _In a purely tactical sense, I am correct._

But Mycroft was _wrong_. He _had_ to be.

"So, are you going to help him disappear again?" John asked, abruptly. "Is that it?"

"No! No, that's – it's not -." She shook her head. "It's just that…he thinks…well, he is sure that this is not Moriarty. Um, he _thinks_ that Irene Adler might be involved."

She watched John absorb this as he sat on the sofa next to Mary. After the initial shock of hearing Adler's name, his eyes were shrewd, his face alert, his head cocked to one side. _Military ready_, she thought to herself.

"Well, I shouldn't be too surprised to learn that _the woman_ is still alive… And what does he want you to do?"

Molly hesitated, unsure of how to answer this or even how much to say.

"I would've thought that was obvious." It was Mary who answered her husband, her voice quiet and surprisingly calm. "Sherlock doesn't think that Adler is going to try to use you to get to him this time. He thinks she'll target a woman instead. He thinks Adler wants to harm him in some way…and he expects her to do it through Molly."

John's face hardened. "That…moron! He should _never_ work alone! Whenever he does, he just develops some kind of - of _tunnel vision_. No one and nothing else matters, just as long as he gets what he wants. It was just the same with Moriarty…"

"He's _not _working alone," Molly said, quickly. "Mycroft -."

John laughed wildly and gazed at the ceiling. "Oh _great_! And of course bloody _Mycroft_ makes _everything_ better!"

"And _has_ Irene Adler contacted you yet?" Mary asked, focusing her full attention on Molly.

Molly looked at her warily. In theory it was the same Mary Watson, small, blonde and friendly, and the enquiry was casual. In practice there was something…_hard_ about the blue eyes. The smile was stilted, the jaw just a little too set. Just who _was _this woman? It occurred to her suddenly that she wouldn't like to get on the wrong side of Mrs Mary Watson.

"Truthfully?" Molly looked into those too-intelligent blue eyes. "I have absolutely no idea."


	23. Chapter 23

**Thank you so much, lovely reviewers! I fully expected nagging for keeping you waiting so long, but you are just the most forgiving and kind bunch of people. Arcoiris – to answer your question (I couldn't reply as you'd reviewed as a guest), yes I am a librarian! We rock, don't we!**

**Usual disclaimers apply.**

* * *

**Chapter 23**

"That's the problem," Molly complained. "How on earth would I even _know_ if she's approached me? It's not as if I've ever met her. And I don't know what she's going to do. Why does he have to be so mysterious? All he said was that I'd _know_ when she contacted me. I'm not even very clear what I'm supposed to do when she _does_."

Greg shifted back on the sofa, propping his socked feet on the coffee table. He looked so shattered that she had to overlook the bad manners. Toby, currently on his knees, hissed his annoyance at the movement but went back to sleep again.

The DI ran his fingers over the cat's soft head, his face reflective. Molly, curled up on the armchair, looked over at him anxiously.

Greg looked more than shattered. He looked utterly done in, his face drawn and paler than she'd ever seen it. He'd lost weight and the dark circles under his eyes seemed to have taken up permanent residence.

His poor lifestyle had finally caught up with him, to say nothing of the pressure caused by the latest situation. Just over a week ago, he'd had a dizzy episode, fortunately only at his desk. He had subsequently been diagnosed with high blood pressure and signed off work for the foreseeable future. Since Greg wasn't exactly rich in leisure activities (apart from drinking and eating takeaways, both of which were banned for now), he quickly grew restless and phoned Molly, who invited him over for dinner.

She didn't mind – in fact, it was a relief to see a friendly face. She'd been meaning to get in touch with Greg for ages, but he'd always sounded too busy and stressed to be bothered. She missed their old friendship, and had begun to fear it would be irrevocably affected by her new relationship with Sherlock (if she could call it that, judging by the current situation).

She hated the idea of being drawn into a more secretive lifestyle, one that might affect her other relationships. After all, she'd be pretty naïve to think that a relationship with Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be a lonely existence; he'd said it himself. She could cope with that, as long as she had some support from her few friends.

Unfortunately, she was trying to avoid John and Mary at the moment. In the first place, she felt guilty for revealing more than she probably should have, and she was desperately worried that John would confront Sherlock about his plan. Mary appeared to have talked him out of it, but it was still a worry…and that was the second reason. Just who _was_ Mary Watson?

She didn't think Sherlock – or Mycroft, come to that - would be particularly happy to know she'd been talking about their plans, but on the other hand, she was feeling incredibly lonely. Over two months had passed and she'd been doing _exactly _what Sherlock had asked of her and not making any attempt to contact him…and yet, nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The strain of trying to carry on normally was beginning to affect her.

It was probably wrong to tell Greg about what had happened after he'd left Baker Street the night before Ellie was born, but she didn't care. It was a relief to pour her story out to someone who would hopefully react more calmly than John.

His face was preoccupied as he gazed down at the sleeping cat on his knee. She was beginning to think that he wouldn't reply, when he looked up at her suddenly.

"Molly, what's the nature of your relationship with Sherlock?"

The unexpected question caught her off-guard. "Um – in what sense exactly?"

He gave her a withering look. "In the _sense_ of what _are_ the two of you? Partners-in-crime? Friends? A convenient shoulder to cry on? Something…more?"

She looked down, picking at a loose thread in the chair's old upholstery. "There's no point in hiding it, I guess. I'm in love with him. And he says he loves me – _no_. No, it's _more_ than that. He _is_ in love with me."

There was a silence during which she didn't dare look at him. Eventually, he commented. "It doesn't seem to make you very happy."

She smiled, her mouth feeling stiff and awkward. "It's a bit…new. I can't get used to it. And I haven't seen him for weeks, so _that_ doesn't help with the sense of unreality."

"That's something you'll probably have to get used to."

His voice sounded so normal and measured that she looked up, startled. "You're not even a little bit surprised?"

He gave her a wry smile. "About _you_? Nah, I've known you were in love with him for years. _Him_? Well…" He frowned a little, considering. "These days, I try not to be surprised by _anything_ Sherlock does. When I first knew him, I'd never have picked him for anyone's choice of best man, much less doing such an extraordinarily _good _job with the role, against all the odds..." He paused again. "No, he's changed. A _lot_. John's probably had a lot to do with that, but there's no reason not to think that others have had their own influence."

"_You_ have," she insisted, even as he shook his head. "_You're_ a good influence on him."

"Mmm." He shrugged, noncommittally, but she sensed he was pleased by the notion, even if he didn't entirely believe her. "Anyway, if he's learnt how to be a halfway decent 'best friend', who's to say he can't learn to be a – a…what do you call him, anyway? Boyfriend seems a bit…well, naff."

She cringed at the thought. "I don't really know. Partner, I suppose? I don't think I can bring myself to use words like 'lover'."

He winced. "No, _please_ don't. That conjures up images that I _really_ don't need to see."

She blushed. "Um, not that it's got _that_ far yet…"

He waved his hand quickly. "_Again_, more information than I actually need to know." He leaned forward and picked up the glass of orange juice that she'd offered him in lieu of anything more interesting or less healthy.

She observed him, concerned. He looked depressed and she was worried. Greg had always been there for her. There had been a time when he'd seemed interested in more than friendship, but that had passed, much to her relief. Despite his obvious charms – he was an attractive man and a kind-hearted one – she had, quite simply, never felt that way about him. Since then, he'd been a good friend, rather like the big brother she'd never had and always wanted.

"You're not…you're not _jealous_, are you?"

It was his turn to look startled. "_What_? Oh, no – _no_! At least…" He rubbed the back of his head and smiled sheepishly. "Maybe just a bit, but not because I fancy you or anything like that."

She smiled, relieved. "I didn't think you did."

His dark eyes were focused on the ground again. "Just feels like it's never going to happen to me, again…if it ever did in the first place." He smiled again, a twisted grimace that never quite reached his eyes.

"You've been too busy, that's all it is," she said, firmly, even as her heart ached for him. "You've got an opportunity now while you're signed off from work, so why don't you get out there and try to find someone?"

He smiled grimly. "Who'd want an old copper with dodgy blood pressure and a lifetime of bad habits?" He was avoiding the obvious topic, but she pressed on determinedly.

"You know that's not the only thing holding you back. It's time to let it go, Greg. Forget all about her, and move on. She was a terrible wife and you deserve much better. Sorry…I don't mean to sound harsh."

"Nah." He took another sip of his drink, grimacing at the sweet taste. "You're not the only one. Sally keeps nagging me to join a dating site."

She had to smile at the idea of Greg having a page detailing his hobbies and his likes and dislikes. "I can't imagine that."

"Neither can I, which is why I keep telling her to give it up." He shrugged. "Thing is, I don't have time for outside interests - apart from drinking and that's really just -."

He stopped quickly and then deliberately changed the subject. "Anyway, enough about my non-existent love life. Let's get back to you and the world's most unlikely lover boy. Now I'm not going to give you sex tips or anything, perish the thought, but why _hasn't_ it got 'that far'?"

"It's like I said," she replied, impatiently. "It's new and we haven't had the chance to get to know each other well enough."

"You think you ever will?"

She looked up at him. His eyes were kind but his face serious. "No offence, Molly, but he's screwed up. Dunno by what; I used to assume it was the parents, but John reckons they're just a sweet harmless old couple. And I've never seen him look at anyone, female _or_ male, with anything even approaching lust. Point is, if you're looking for a 'normal' relationship, it just ain't gonna happen. Not with _him_. For a start, can he even…um, respond _physically_? _You_ know."

She laughed at his obvious discomfort at the topic. "Yes, he _can_. He's a perfectly normal man in that respect. It's not _that_ – and I _do _know what you mean. I worry about it too. If it's not this case, it'll be something else. He'll be dashing off somewhere and we might not see each other for weeks. How can we ever settle into any kind of relationship with that going on? And you're right…I'm going to have to get used to that."

"And what about _your_ life? What about the pathology training? You have a life of your own too – your own career, your own interests." He shook his head. "I don't want to see you giving it all up for someone who might not even be there for you most of the time. Look at John – being called out to crime scenes practically every night, falling asleep at work during the day. No wonder he could only work as a locum while he was living with Sherlock."

She felt a little indignant on Sherlock's behalf. "He wouldn't ask me to give up my job – why _would_ he? I'll work around it…but in any case, it's not like it was with John. When I became Sherlock's assistant for a day, I wasn't much help to him, not like John always was." She smiled. "And, in any case, I'm pretty useful to him right where I am. And – and I don't want any relationship to change my friendships, especially not with _you_. I won't let it."

His eyes softened, but he still looked worried. "And will he _always _involve you in his cases, even if it might be dangerous? Not very loving of him, is it?"

She frowned. "Come on, Greg. You know me better than that. If I couldn't cope with the risks, I would've cut him out of my life _years_ ago."

"You can't tell me that you're _happy_ with this situation."

She moved restlessly, throwing down the cushion she'd been clutching and standing up. "_No_. I'm _not_ happy, obviously. I hate being separated from him; feeling that I can't just ring him up or pop around. Even before, I could've done that any time without worrying about who might be watching me, but _now_, even more…it feels _wrong_, not being with him. But don't think I want him to change, because I _don't_."

Greg was quiet as she stared unseeingly out of the window. "It's what I fell in love with in the first place – that intelligence, that – that pure _energy_ he has when he's solving mysteries. I don't _want _him to stop doing that, I just..." She swallowed. "I just want _him_. That's all. Is it too much to ask?"

She was still looking out of the window, blankly watching the late-night pedestrians passing on the pavement below.

Greg cleared his throat. "And what will you do if this woman _does_ make contact with you? Because it sounds to me as if he hasn't made it very clear to you."

She turned to face him, leaning against the window. "I'm not sure. I'll play it by ear, I guess, and maybe Sherlock will get in touch once she does. It's not as if he won't know about it. I'm pretty sure that _Mycroft _at least is watching me – he's probably watching us right now."

She was surprised that Greg didn't look alarmed at the prospect, but then he'd had his own run-ins with Mycroft over the years and probably wasn't all that surprised.

"As for Sherlock, well he'll probably just _know_. You know what he's like."

"What if she wants you to do something dangerous? You said that Sherlock thought she might try to use you to harm him in some way. Wasn't he more specific than that?"

She considered. "Thing is, I don't think he really knew either. It was all just…speculation."

He laughed without any humour. "Speculation? _Sherlock_? Doesn't sound much like him."

"No, it doesn't, but…" She hesitated. "Mycroft seemed to think that I might be some kind of distraction for him."

"_Hah_! Then he knows his brother even less well than I thought." Lestrade offloaded an indignant Toby from his lap and got up to join her at the window. "If you were that much of a distraction, he'd be trying to protect you. He'd probably get Mycroft to put you in protective custody or something. But he's actively using you to solve the case. That's got to tell you something." He gave her a meaningful look before turning to look out of the window. "It's cold-hearted, that's for sure, and it wouldn't be _my_ instinct to put someone I care about at potential risk…but he's certainly thinking clearly. Let's face it, he did much the same with John more than once. Maybe he'll find a way of contacting you once he's got more information."

"And he hasn't been in touch with you at all?"

"No. And I haven't bothered him. Been too busy with the department stores business and it's not something that I would usually bother Sherlock with. We've got CCTV, so there's no great mystery. It's just a case of picking people up and charging them. Anyway, as far as I was concerned, he wasn't yet fit enough after the shooting to be dashing around…although I guess he is _now_."

She turned towards the window again; they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, staring at the road below. "So what do you think I should do?"

"Use your instinct." His voice was assured, very much the professional police detective all of a sudden. "Play the part he's created for you until you hear otherwise…but if you think things are getting too hot, you contact _me_. I can't put you under police surveillance, not without attracting unwelcome attention, but as you say Mycroft's probably got that covered. But remember – I'm here to help. It's not as if I've got much else to do at the moment."

She smiled slightly. "The last thing _you _need is more stress. You're supposed to be getting your blood pressure down."

He snorted. "Just being away from the desk'll do that. The last few weeks have been hellish, with all the arrests and court cases and no time for anything else. What I wouldn't give for a nice normal murder case… Do you think that Leather Boy over there is ever going to ride off?"

His voice was light, but something about it made her focus on the helmeted biker in jeans and a black leather jacket just across the road. He had his back to them and was sitting sideways on his parked bike, which had a box on the back containing the logo of a well-known pizza delivery business. His head was bent; from this angle, it looked as if he was texting on a mobile.

"He _has_ been there for a bit," she commented, her suspicions rising.

They continued to watch for another minute, but the biker continued hunch over, apparently focused on his phone. Suddenly, Greg muttered a rude word under his breath and pulled out his own phone to send a text message.

"_What_?" he said, grinning as Molly gave him a look of surprise. "Don't you recognise your own boyfriend? I've just texted to tell him to stop arsing around and come on in."

"Oh, is it Sherlock?" She looked back at the figure, a little startled.

"Of course it is. _Obvious_." Greg sniggered as he saw the figure stiffen and glance over his shoulder up at them. "Not one of his better disguises, I have to say. And it's a bit of a public way to pay you a visit."

"Oh? And which disguise would you prefer, then?"

The all-too-familiar voice came from behind them, making them jump. Molly spun around, her hands flying up to her mouth.

Sherlock stood in the doorway to her bedroom. He was dressed in his usual suit and coat, looking remarkably tidy for someone who had, presumably, climbed up the fire escape ladder and through her bedroom window. He gave her an amused look, and she felt her face splitting into a ridiculously wide grin, even as her heart began to beat faster.

"But if you're _here_ -," Greg looked over his shoulder in confusion, "- then who the hell is _he_?"


	24. Chapter 24

**OK, pop quiz! See if you can guess who I've based a certain character on! Two people - an actor and a character. Answer in the notes at the bottom. **

**Usual disclaimers and grateful thanks for your kind reviews.**

* * *

**Chapter 24**

"But if you're _here_ … then who the hell is _he_?"

At Greg's words, Sherlock's expression of mild amusement vanished. He strode diagonally across the floor, making towards the wall to the side of the window and flattening himself against it.

"Tell me what you see. _Precisely_," he warned Greg.

Greg gave him a confused look before turning back to the window. "I can't see details, but he has your height and body shape…and some of your mannerisms, I think. That's why I assumed it was you. He's still there."

"Do you still think he looks like Sherlock?" Molly asked, intrigued. She had stepped back from the window at Sherlock's sudden appearance, but now turned back towards it. "I _didn't_, which is why I was surprised when you sent that text. What was it that made you think -?"

"Molly, stay back from the window," Sherlock ordered, sharply. "Exactly _what _was it that made you think it was me?"

Molly froze for a moment and then backed away slowly as Greg went on: "Well…he's texting - or doing something on his phone, anyway – and he keeps putting his head slightly on one side, just like you do when you're considering something. And then, just after I sent that text to you, he straightened up and looked over his shoulder at us – that was a bit like you too. Sort-of jerky and sharp, like _you_ are when you spot something at a crime scene."

Sherlock leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes, letting out a huge, exasperated sigh. "_Bloody Mycroft_!"

Greg exchanged a glance with Molly before looking down at the figure again. "Really? So he _does _have Molly under surveillance."

"No – well, yes, he does – but that man down there is no agent. In fact, he detests my brother. And he's probably the most dangerous man you will ever meet."

Molly frowned. "Isn't that what you once told John about Mycroft?"

Sherlock waved an impatient hand. "Hyperbole. OK, tell him he can come up."

"Um – how?" Greg asked, even as Sherlock gestured with his hand.

"Stand where he can see you clearly and rub the bridge of your nose with the index finger of your right hand three times. Then turn away."

Greg did as he was told, before giving Molly another bewildered look. "He wasn't even looking up at me."

Sherlock snorted. "Of _course_ he was. He wasn't _texting_ on his phone; he was using it to spy on you." He peered around the edge of the window frame, taking care not to be seen. "There's a CCTV camera on the wall over there and it's pointing at this window. Mycroft, no doubt. Your new friend down there has hacked into it and is looking at this window as we speak. What's he doing now?"

Molly stepped over to the window to check. The man had got up and was taking something out of the box on the back of his bike. "Um…delivering pizza, I think."

And it was true that the man appeared to be doing exactly that, walking over to the front door of her block of flats with a couple of flat boxes in his hands. He disappeared from sight under the porch roof and then Molly heard her door buzzer go.

Glancing at Sherlock, she walked over to the door and pressed the intercom. "Hello?"

"Pizza delivery!" The voice sounded young and almost jarringly cheerful, even while muffled by the bike helmet.

"Um – OK. Come in."

She pressed to unlock the downstairs door. Sherlock darted back towards her bedroom, hiding behind the door. Greg glanced at Molly before opening the flat door.

Light footsteps could be heard coming up the steps. Molly and Greg stood uncertainly in the doorway as the man came up the final flight of steps.

"Phew! It's a long way up," he said, conversationally. His voice, still muffled by the helmet covering his face, was cheerfully East London. "You must really want your pizza by the time you get up here. Well, here you go then – one extra-large deep pan Meat Feast, one large stuffed crust Farmhouse. That's sixteen quid."

He stepped into the room and handed the pizza boxes to Greg before unstrapping his helmet and pulling it off his head. As he stepped further into the light and lifted his head, Molly had her first impression of a young man with curly dark-blond hair and bright blue eyes.

He grinned at her and she was struck by his engaging appearance. His pale face was thin and youthful, his features almost ethereal in their delicate beauty, and yet there was something cheeky, even a little naughty, in his expression. And the smile on the reddish lips with their cupid's bow was such a beguilingly sweet mixture of artfulness and innocence that she found herself smiling in response without being fully aware of it.

Judging by the snort that Greg gave as he closed the door, he didn't share her opinion of the handsome stranger. "OK, so who are you and what are you up to? Why are you spying on us?"

The man looked him up and down in an overly-familiar way that made Greg bristle and laughed. "You _must_ be Greg Lestrade. I've heard a lot about you. And _you_ -, his bright gaze turned back to Molly, "- _must_ be the breathtakingly lovely and delightful Miss Molly Hooper. Now I've had a chance to see you in person, I can understand all the fuss. Oh, by the way, Sherlock –", he raised his voice, "- you can come out now."

Molly blinked at the voice. In an instant, his accent had switched from chippy East London to quiet, well-modulated public school. As he pushed his unruly curls off his forehead, she realised he wasn't as young as he had first seemed either - more mid-thirties than early-twenties.

Sherlock appeared in the bedroom doorway, glaring at the newcomer. "What are _you _doing here?"

The man smirked, and yet again seemed to change character. His smile didn't falter, but the sunny innocence in it disappeared to be replaced by something darker and more complicated. "Well, what a _pleasant _welcome! I might have expected a _slightly_ friendlier greeting after thirteen years… brother dear."

Molly's head spun alarmingly for a moment; dimly she was aware of Greg muttering "what the hell…?" as she put a hand out to the wall to steady herself. _Another brother_?

The man glanced in Molly's direction. "I appear to have alarmed your girlfriend, Sherlock…but then, presumably, she knows nothing about me. Why would she? After all, even Mummy doesn't mention me these days, I understand."

"And whose fault is _that_?" Sherlock demanded, stepping forward.

The man looked at Sherlock keenly for a moment, his quick eyes flickering over the consulting detective's face in a mannerism so familiar that Molly suddenly saw the physical resemblance between the two. It was not just the untidy hair and thin, intelligent face. The sharp eyes, the retroussé nose, the strongly defined mouth – all were Sherlock's but in a gentler, less striking form. If anything, this man resembled their shared mother even more strongly with his fairer colouring. However, he did not share that unusual ever-shifting eye colour that both Sherlock and Mrs Holmes possessed; his were the purest, brightest blue.

The man frowned now. "Surely you didn't _believe_ I was guilty?"

Sherlock snorted, shaking his head. "Of course not, but _really_, Sherrinford? How on earth did you allow yourself to get caught?"

"I notice you didn't trouble yourself to attempt to prove my innocence." The man – _Sherrinford_? – spoke easily, but there was a hard undertone now.

Sherlock shrugged. "What could _I _have done? I had my own problems at that time anyway."

"Yes, I heard about that too," his brother replied, darkly.

"_Sherrinford_?" Greg murmured weakly.

Sherlock glanced at him and Molly, his expression almost as world-weary as Mycroft's. "Yes. My brother – my _older_ brother, Sherrinford Holmes."

Sherrinford turned the full force of his rather breathless charm on Molly with a dazzling smile. "Only _one_ year older, in fact. You might say he was something of an accident. I'm quite _certain_ Mummy intended to stop with me."

"Just as well for her that she didn't," Sherlock muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

Greg shook his head in disbelief. "You mean there are more than _two_ of you? Mycroft, Sherlock and…Sherrinford. _Jesus_, your parents didn't like you much. Family names, are they?"

The brothers gave him identical blank looks before Sherrinford said, "My _full _name is Patrick Sherrinford Abel Holmes. But frankly there were a fair number of 'Patrick's' at school, and it was easier to stand out with my second name." That smile was aimed at Molly again, and again she found herself smiling in return.

"And _you certainly_ enjoyed standing out," Sherlock shot back.

Greg sniffed at the boxes he was holding, opened the top one and frowned. "And this really _is_ pizza. You're not working as a delivery boy, are you?"

Sherrinford shrugged, helping himself to a slice of pizza. "Of course not. The owner went into one of the flats opposite earlier, I suspect for a quick rendezvous with his girlfriend – presumably not approved of on the company time, especially with 2 pizzas still to deliver. He will emerge from the flat shortly and discover precisely why he shouldn't leave pizza unattended in this neighbourhood at this time of night." He paused, munching his way through the slice with every sign of enjoyment, and ignoring the disgusted noise Sherlock made. "The bike was merely an opportunity for me to appear occupied while waiting across the road. I knew Sherlock would make an appearance at some stage tonight. I was using the CCTV to watch your window for a sign – but evidently Sherlock told you that, along with the code we used when we were boys."

"How did you know he'd be coming here?" Molly asked, looking over at Sherlock curiously.

"More to the point," Sherlock added, giving his brother an intrigued look. "_How_ did you get out?"

"What do you deduce?"

Sherrinford stood idly munching his pizza as Sherlock ran his eyes over him in the familiar quick manner. Molly got the distinct impression that he was enjoying the deduction process; certainly his body language wasn't particularly tense. But then, how could one tell with a man like this? He had the characteristics of a chameleon – ever shifting moods and expressions as he moved from one character to the next.

Sherlock frowned a little, his eyes gleaming with interest. "You did not break out. This was not pre-planned, but a sudden opportunity presented itself. However, you did _not_ escape, because you are well-dressed – yes, you could have obtained those clothes en-route, but you couldn't have guaranteed to get items that fit so well if you'd been on the run. American labels, so you were dressed over there…and the leather jacket is worn in and fits you perfectly, which suggests that you've been dressed in civilian clothes at least _some_ of the time over the last few years. You were _released_ – but why? And, despite that, why do you still have the triumphant expression of a man who has escaped? Also, you are eating that pizza as if you haven't eaten properly for days, so you are certainly on the run, but not from the authorities. You would hardly be lingering in the streets if the CIA wanted you…" A slow smile broke out on Sherlock's face as the penny dropped. "You're on the run from _Mycroft_! He got you out – or more likely sent a couple of minions to do the job – and you've given them the slip."

His brother returned the smirk. "Managed to lose them at the airport. I see you've still _got_ it, despite everything. I was beginning to think you were in decline…I've spoken to Mycroft." He deposited the last of the pizza in his mouth and licked his fingers delicately. "Or rather, he spoke while I tried very hard not to listen. Anyway, that's why I knew you'd turn up here at some point today. No doubt you've heard the news that the CIA have somehow managed to lose Ms Adler?"

Sherlock glared, his good mood evaporating instantly. "Her whereabouts are _not_ significant."

"Well, the CIA managed to keep the news from Dear Brother Mycroft for a surprisingly long time," his brother countered lightly. "Quite a humiliation for them – they made the fatal mistake of trusting her. You should be _pleased_. It's an embarrassment for Mycroft. And besides, the timing suggests that she _could_ be responsible for that little stunt after all."

"I _always_ knew she was involved."

"Hah!" Sherrinford swallowed the last of his pizza slice, shaking his head. "Of _course_ you did. You're just pissed off because you have no idea where she is…or what she intends to do next. She really did a number on you, didn't she? Never thought I'd see Sherlock wrong-footed by a _woman_. I thought they didn't interest you…although, having said that…" He looked at Molly and, again, there was that same dazzling smile that just _demanded_ a response.

She glanced at Sherlock, expecting to see jealousy, but he was staring keenly at his brother. "She…did a number on _you_ too. Didn't she? Was _she_ the one who…?" He was talking slowly, working it out as he went along. "That's…why you appear to know her…and that's also why Mycroft is involving you! I _knew_ it!" He clicked his fingers. "He doesn't trust me to solve this, and he wants _you_ to prove to me that Adler isn't involved!"

"Um – can we back up a bit here?" Greg asked, rubbing the back of his head. "_Who_ has the CIA lost? Who is Adler?"

"_I_ can tell you that."

They all looked towards the door at the quiet but familiar voice. Mycroft was walking in, looking more than usually world-weary. He aimed his severest glare at Sherrinford, not appearing at all surprised to see his other brother also present.

Sherrinford merely grinned as he purloined another pizza slice. "Well, what did you expect? I wasn't planning on going into protective custody. Of _course_ I was going to give your men the slip as soon as I got out. Besides which, what makes you think I owe _you_ any loyalty? You didn't trouble yourself to get me out any earlier." Again, there was a just a suggestion of hardness beneath the smiling exterior – Molly sensed that Sherrinford was not as easy-going as he seemed and was, in fact, fairly angry with _both_ of his brothers. "So…what _finally_ prompted you? I assume you need my…_special_ expertise this time?"

Mycroft gave him a hard stare. "You consistently over-estimate my powers to retrieve a man who has been convicted in a cast-iron trial of selling US state secrets. Do you suppose the CIA would have listened to me?"

"_Do_ I over-estimate your power?" The look that Sherrinford gave his older brother made it clear that he didn't believe a word of it. "So what has suddenly given you even _more_ elevated powers?"

"Um, _what_?" Greg interjected, staring at Sherrinford. "_You_ – the CIA – state secrets…?"

Sherrinford gave him an amused look. "Oh, _relax_, Detective Inspector! I'm not on the run – and in any case, I didn't do it, as both of my brothers know _full well_. That's _not _the reason I've been staring at blank walls for nearly four years."

"As I understand it, you haven't been staring at blank walls at all," Mycroft interjected casually, his sharp eyes focused on his brother. "In fact, your captors have been keeping you busy…working on…?"

Sherrinford gave him an innocent look. "That's strictly deep cover stuff. After all, you can't _possibly_ expect me to reveal US state secrets?"

"I _can_ when you're still a British patriot and – contractually – my employee," Mycroft countered, softly, dangerously.

Sherrinford dropped his amiable exterior, allowing his full dislike to show in his handsome face. "If you _had_ been any kind of employer, you would have taken steps to _protect _me," he hissed, furiously. "As it was, you didn't trouble yourself. You left me to _rot_, Mycroft! Because it _suited_ you…and because you had to keep Adler happy. To say nothing of Moriarty. _He _wanted me out of the way, _she_ framed me…and _you _let the CIA do the dirty work for you. But then that's _you_ all over. Why trouble to get your own hands dirty when you can pass on the _filth_ to someone else?"

"I _did_ hear a rumour that at one point you were suspected of being Moriarty yourself," Mycroft murmured, seemingly unfazed by the open hatred in his brother's face.

Sherrinford laughed, shortly. "That's the CIA for you. Anyway, don't expect anything from me. I suppose I should be grateful that you finally deigned to get me out, even if it took four years, but I know perfectly well that there's a price to pay. Well, as far as I'm concerned, I paid that price four years ago. I don't owe you _anything_, Mycroft. And don't try to coerce me or keep me under surveillance. We both know that that'll end badly – for you."

"Then why are you _here_?" Mycroft demanded. "I'm surprised you didn't grab one of your false identities and get out of the country as soon as possible. I would have expected that."

"Yes, and I'm sure that you've located all my false identities by now. I wasn't going to walk into a trap at the airport, thank you very much. _When_ – and _if_ – I leave the country, it'll be by a means and method that you are not in a position to trace. _Don't_ think I can't do it. You've made that mistake before, more than once."

Mycroft didn't appear to dispute that; if anything, he simply looked wearier than ever. "And what will you do?" The query sounded casual, but even Molly could detect the tension in his voice.

Sherrinford shrugged, seeming to relish his brother's discomfort. "None of your business. It won't surprise you to learn that I have options to explore. I'm eminently employable, as you well know."

"Yes," Mycroft murmured. "That's what worries me. For example, how do I know that I shouldn't be investigating you for the Moriarty stunt or the security failure in the West End? If you were given as much power in prison as my contacts suggest, you'd probably have been able to pull one or both of those off."

His brother gave him a blank look. "Why on earth would I do that?"

"Oh, I don't know," Mycroft continued, silkily. "What if you learnt that Sherlock was about to set off on an undercover mission from which he was not expected to return? What if you decided to intervene so we were forced to recall him immediately?"

Sherrinford gave Sherlock a dismissive look that was almost chilling in its lack of emotion. "Sherlock can look after himself. He always has. And if he failed in your suicide mission, why should _I _care?"

"_Extraordinary_," Greg muttered in disbelief, half to himself.

Molly knew what he meant. Two eccentric, unemotional brothers was one thing – it'd taken many years, but she'd just about got the measure of the two of them, and she could see how they sparked each other off. But throw in a _third_ brother – seemingly charming but apparently utterly uncaring – and she was in a spin again. Had _any_ of them got on with _either_ of the other two when they were children? Were they really all so different in personality and yet so similar in their fear of emotion? And how on earth had such a charming if dotty mother raised three such sons?

What really got her was the way that none of the trio seemed remotely bothered by the mutual dislike and lack of care. Mycroft was utterly blank-faced in the face of Sherrinford's anger, while Sherlock didn't seem remotely hurt by his brother's attitude to his suicide mission. If anything, he looked amused. She realised that this was probably why Sherlock was so appalling at not realising he was hurting people by his remarks. He had grown up expecting barbs and insults to be the norm, and he probably thought that it was weak to show that they bothered you in any way.

In fact, as she looked closer, she could see that the unusually quiet Sherlock was rather enjoying the encounter between his brothers. She had always assumed that it'd been Sherlock and Mycroft at each other's throats the whole time, but now she had a vision of two younger boys pooling their skills to gang up on their pompous, self-important much older sibling. They must have made his teenage years an utter misery, she reflected, trying to hide her amusement at the thought.

Talking of skill…what was Sherrinford's? He was pale-skinned and delicately made, so it was nothing outdoorsy, she was sure. He had referred rather smugly to being eminently employable, and it sounded as if the CIA hadn't been able to resist using his specialist skills, even when he was their prisoner. And he'd been employed by Mycroft at some point too.

"Nevertheless," Mycroft persisted. "You know Adler far better than my brother. You know how her mind works…_intimately_, I might say. So you can surely advise on whether or not she is involved?"

"_How_ intimately?" Sherlock broke in, quickly, and Molly was shocked by her instinctive stab of jealousy. But Sherlock didn't show any discomfort at hearing about his brother's personal knowledge of Irene Adler, merely curiosity. "What is your connection to her? I can deduce that there is one, but how deep does it run?"

Sherrinford gave him a world-weary look. "I was cultivating her. The woman is a genius for collecting information. I won't say that she has any methods that I don't already know about, but her understanding of what does and doesn't count is phenomenal. It's just a shame that she focuses on specific types of information."

He gave a disapproving sniff which sounded oddly old-fashioned.

"Why shouldn't she?" Sherlock asked, with a little smile. "It's an effective strategy for her. And it's as much a weapon for a man as for a woman. _You_ ought to know that, you've seen it in action enough times with Mycroft's operatives – although I trust that you haven't _actually _seen it. It's the weapon that she happens to be most adept with."

"So I gather." Sherrinford looked more than a little intrigued. "I understand she used it on _you_ most effectively."

His younger brother rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed, although his eyes found Molly's very briefly, as if assessing the impact of Sherrinford's implication. "I'm disappointed in you, Sherrinford. Do you really think that I'd be one of her victims…like you?"

Sherrinford grinned, not rising to the bait. "_Equally_ unimpressed, Sherlock. Strictly interested in her brain - and her brain _alone_."

"As was I," Sherlock countered, glancing at Molly again.

Mycroft coughed meaningfully. "If we could _possibly_ get back to the matter at hand…"

Sherrinford folded his arms, returning his older brother's gaze. "I can't help you, I'm afraid."

"_Can't_? Or _won't_?"

His brother shrugged and rubbed a hand through his unruly hair, suddenly looking weary – and very young. There was something a little unworldly about Sherrinford Holmes – he didn't seem to belong in the real world, and there was an underlying innocence there that his brothers lacked despite the evident cynicism.

"Do you hate your country so very much?" Mycroft asked, his voice suddenly softer than Molly had ever heard it.

She looked at Sherrinford – and was shocked by the open misery in his expression. "_My _country?" he asked dully, before shrugging again and looking at the floor. "I suppose it _must_ be still…and yet, my patriotism didn't serve me well, did it? However, I'm _not_ in a position to be of service to it again." He looked back at his brother again, his face more defiant now. "You can _attempt _to force me, of course. However, we both know how that will end."

Mycroft looked a little taken-aback at the show of emotion on his brother's face. "You are wrong about something," he said, after a pause. "_I _didn't get you released. What I said was true – I _couldn't._ Not without serious damage to diplomatic relations."

Sherrinford looked surprised for a moment before giving a dry laugh. "No. On reflection, I suppose not. I wonder who my benefactor _was_, then?"

"Irene Adler."

As Sherrinford and Mycroft looked at him in surprise, Sherlock put his head on one side, spreading his hands wide as he continued slowly. "Who else? She was the one who arranged your conviction. Naturally, she would be the one to organise your release. How? Almost certainly, she had something – or perhaps _someone_ – to sell." He frowned, looking confused. "The _real _question is…_why_? Why would it benefit her to have you released when she wanted you out of the way in the first place?"

"Why indeed," Mycroft agreed, with a grim smile. As he made some fine adjustments to the collar and cuffs of his wool coat, which seemed to be his habit prior to a departure, he glanced at Sherrinford. Molly suspected that it was the tip of his tongue to ask his brother to come with him. Something in the other man's expression seemed to decide him against it, and he turned his attention to Greg instead.

"Your dinner with Molly would appear to be over," he pointed out, courteously. "May I offer you a lift home, Detective Inspector? I am assuming you are not able to drive at present due to your health condition."

Greg, who had been busy staring at first Sherrinford and then Sherlock in horrified fascination, blinked at this, seeming surprised at the polite offer from Mycroft. It was no secret that the two men disliked each other. "Thanks, but I'll be OK to get a taxi," he replied, gruffly.

Mycroft nodded briskly. "As you will. Goodnight to you all… Sherrinford, you know how to contact me, should you change your mind."

He left without further ado, closing the door behind him.

Sherrinford and Sherlock stared at the door and then at each other as Mycroft's footsteps echoed down the stairwell. Molly was struck afresh by their physical similarities.

"You realise it won't be that simple," Sherlock pointed out.

Sherrinford sighed. "Of course not. He's Mycroft, after all."

His brother smirked. "You should never have accepted his offer in the first place."

"With _his_ resources? My own suite of laboratories and free range to develop whatever I chose? Personally, I'm only surprised you turned him down."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in a characteristic way. "Not necessary. I have always been able to obtain whatever I have needed by other means."

"So I understand." Sherrinford's eyes slid to Molly's again, his smile sly but still annoyingly attractive. She found herself flushing slightly. "Perhaps I lack your personal charm?"

"I very much doubt that," his brother replied drily, taking the two of them in. Molly was pleased to note that he _did_ look a little irritated at Sherrinford's interest in her.

"Relax, Sherlock. I was merely going to ask the lovely Molly if she would mind lending me a sofa for the night. To be frank-," he laughed briefly. "I have absolutely nowhere else to go right now."

The smile was still there but weary and Molly, against her better judgement, believed him.

"Well...I suppose it'd be OK," she replied, doubtfully. "Only – Greg, were you planning to kip here?"

Greg was looking at Sherrinford almost as distrustfully as Sherlock. "Mmm? No, you're OK – I was just going to call a taxi…" He gave Molly a meaningful look and she stepped away from the brothers towards him, just out of earshot. "Are you quite sure you're alright with this? I'll stay if not. You don't know anything about him. I just assumed he'd be going home with Sherlock."

She pulled a wry face. "I have a strong feeling that _Sherlock_ won't be going home anyway. Not for _that_," she added quickly at the queasy look on the DI's face. "It's just that…he's got that _look_ on his face – you know what I mean? The one that means an all-nighter. He's not going to let Sherrinford go without giving him the information he wants. Why do you suppose Mycroft backed off without much of a fight?"

His doubtful expression cleared. "I _did_ think that was a bit odd. You're right… He knows Sherrinford won't talk to _him_, but he's relying on Sherlock to get the information they need… What do you reckon – is Sherrinford really innocent?"

She looked over at the brothers; they were standing close together in intense discussion. Sherrinford had his arms folded in a defensive gesture; Sherlock was leaning in, with his most persuasive expression. At that moment, it was easier to assume that Sherrinford was the younger brother. Sherlock seemed to hold all the cards...or was that simply what his brother _wanted_ him to think?

"_Sherlock _believes he is. That's good enough for me." _And so does Mycroft_, she could have added.

She continued to watch the duo in fascination, as Greg made his call to a taxi company. As he put his phone away, he whispered, "What do you suppose he does for Mycroft, anyway? Something high up, I imagine."

Before she could answer, Sherrinford looked around at them, his dazzling smile firmly back in place. "So, I take it I'm not about to be put under arrest, Detective Inspector?"

Greg grunted. "Strictly off duty right now. But there's one thing I'd like to know. When I texted Sherlock, why did you react and look up at the window? It was almost as if you had access to his phone, but that _can't_ be right, because I heard his ring tone here in the flat as soon as I sent it -."

Sherlock sighed, exasperated. "Oh, _naturally_. I should have thought of that. OK, hand it over. _Now_."

His brother grinned boyishly and pulled out a sleek-looking dark phone, which he tossed over to his brother. "Already broke the connnection, but you're welcome to have a look."

"You…hacked into his phone with _your_ phone? Is that even possible?"

Sherlock gave Greg an annoyed look as he fiddled with an application on Sherrinford's phone. "For the head of research and development at MI6? Child's play, unfortunately. And that's why he really _is_ the most dangerous man you will ever meet."

* * *

**OK, did you guess? It wasn't difficult - going by current gossip about the next series, I pitched Sherrinford to resemble the lovely Tom Hiddleston, while his job is that of Q's in the James Bond films, as played by the equally gorgeous Ben Whishaw, of course!**


	25. Chapter 25

**Here we go, next chapter! Usual disclaimers apply. **

* * *

**Chapter 25**

As it looked as if Sherlock's reunion with his brother would become an all-nighter, Molly decided to excuse herself to her bedroom, after offering various refreshments which Sherrinford accepted enthusiastically. As she left them, he was sitting on the sofa devouring an odd mixture of cold pizza and custard creams and gulping a large mug of coffee. Meanwhile, Sherlock was perched in her armchair, his legs drawn up in front of him as he expanded on his theory about Irene Adler's involvement in the latest attack on British security. As far as she could make out by the set of his shoulders, Sherrinford seemed resigned to his involvement in the case – with Sherlock at least, even if he refused to assist their older brother.

She slept fitfully, as she often did when there were guests in the house, particularly two as peculiar as the current ones. On the occasions when Sherlock had slept in her bedroom during his years 'away', she'd often been kept awake, not just by the fact that she'd had to move to the uncomfortable sofa but also by the sound of him pacing up and down behind the closed door. And right now, she could hear the rumble of voices through the closed door, occasionally rising in sharp disagreement.

She must have drifted off at some point, because she suddenly found herself shocked out of sleep by something – some noise or movement in the room. She couldn't hear or see anything, but somehow was suddenly aware that there was someone in the dark room with her. Heart thumping, she reached out and switched on the table lamp.

"_Sherlock_! God, you frightened me!"

He was sitting hunched up at the foot of her bed, hugging his shins with his knees under his chin, rather as he had been in the lounge earlier. He was frowning at nothing in particular and didn't seem to be startled by the light going on.

"Shhh. Thinking."

"And you couldn't do that in the lounge?" She shifted herself into a sitting position, pulling the duvet up a little to cover her shabby pyjama top.

"I needed someone to bounce an idea off."

"You mean the skull," she groused, pushing tangled hair off her face before reaching for her bedside glass of water. "Wasn't Sherrinford any good?"

"He's asleep."

"You surprise me," she replied, drily.

"Well, _really_." He spread his hands wide. "At a time like this, with so much going on?"

"Well, he looked like he needed a good meal and an undisturbed night. We don't all have your ability to exist on limited or no sleep… So you thought you'd come and wake me up instead? Or were you planning to talk to my sleeping self?"

She sighed as she eyed him. He was frowning at her now, seeming confused by her grumpiness. She noticed that he was barefoot and dressed in just his shirt and trousers in her drafty, unheated bedroom.

"For heaven's sake, Sherlock, you must be freezing! Come under here." Without thinking too much about it, she shifted over slightly in bed and pulled back the duvet.

"Cold? No, not really." He seemed puzzled by the observation, even though there was a bluish tinge to his lips and his hands were shaking slightly.

"Well then, you're making _me_ feel cold. Come on, if you've got to talk and I've got to be awake for it, we might as well be comfortable."

She lay down again, making sure she had left enough room for him. Her bed was a smallish double, but like most habitually single people she was used to sprawling across the middle.

He didn't move immediately. "I'm not… This is not – I had no intention..." His voice faded away, awkwardly.

"I know that," she said, quietly. "If you'd come in here for any other purpose than just to talk, you'd have said so. But Sherlock, I… Look, I haven't seen you for weeks and I've _missed_ you. Not being able to kiss you or touch you, or even just speak to you – it's been so difficult. It doesn't mean that _this_, right now, has to lead to anything - I know you need to focus on the case and you can't be distracted by anything else right now. But I –," she sighed, feeling a lump in her throat. "I just want to _be_ with you….even just lying next to you for a while. Can't we do that?"

"Well, if you don't mind…" There was still an air of hesitancy in his movements as he shifted over and lay down very carefully on the other side of the bed. As she dropped the duvet over him, she wondered whether he'd shared a bed with anyone in his life. He lay on his back at a careful distance from her, motionless and with his hands folded neatly over his chest.

She watched him for a minute or two and then giggled, her heart lightening. "You look like a corpse that's been laid out for burial."

It was hard to make out his expression by the dim light of her bedside lamp as he stared at the ceiling, but he shifted a little nearer, putting his hands behind his head instead. "This mattress is too soft," he complained.

"No, it's not – it's a bit old, but that just makes it saggy and comfortable. And besides, I usually end up rolling into the middle. It's like a den… What an odd conversation to be having." _And what an odd situation_, she might have added. Somehow, when she'd visualised getting him into her bed, she hadn't imagined _this_.

He gave a brief nod, which might have been agreement or at least acknowledgement, before going on. "I've been thinking about Irene Adler."

She mentally rolled her eyes before giving him an interrogative "hmm?"

"Why did she get Sherrinford out? What does she want him for? Why is it in her interest to arrange the release of a dangerously clever man with a grudge against her?"

"Well, I don't know…maybe Mycroft is right. Maybe he's working with her. Mycroft wondered whether he was involved in that Moriarty thing or the security hack on those shops."

He shook his head violently. "No. Sherrinford would never do that. He has no motive."

"Wouldn't -," she swallowed. "Um, wouldn't _she_ be motive enough?"

"For _Sherrinford_?" He turned his head and she saw his eyes glittering oddly in the dim light as he grinned. "_Hardly_. When he said he was only interested in her brain, he meant it. Oh, he knows how to turn the charm on…"

"He certainly _does_," she agreed.

"Hmm. Yes, I noticed that he seemed to have quite an effect on _you_." Was there just a _hint_ of jealously in his sharp tone? She was suddenly reminded of his behaviour in the hospital when he seemed to think that she was getting a little too close to Mycroft.

She smiled lazily, turning on her side to face him. "Have you considered the fact that his charm might simply remind me of _you_?"

"_Really_?" He sounded more than a little disbelieving.

She shook her head, laughing a little. "What gets me about you, Sherlock Holmes, is that you seem utterly unaware of the effect you have on people – on _me_. That – that utterly irritatingly _frustratingly _disarming charm of yours… And yet, you _do_ know – you _must_. You use it enough during cases to get something you want."

"Oh well – _cases_," he said, dismissively.

She stared at him for a minute before realisation hit her. "You used it on _Janine_! All the time – all those smiles and eager conversations at the wedding. The engagement…it was all just for a _case_!"

"But of _course_." He peered at her in a puzzled manner. "What did you think it was?"

She thought back, frowning. "The smiles looked genuine. And you seemed fascinated by her. You've never -."

She stopped quickly, but he deduced what she was about to say. "Molly – listen to me. When have I ever smiled at you in public or showed any interest in your conversation?"

"Never," she muttered, her good humour evaporating for a moment.

"No – so don't you _see_? Look at me!" He reached over to cradle her cheek in his hand, lifting her face up. His expression was serious and intent. "That's not _me_, Molly! I _don't_ follow all the rules of polite society. It's just not the way I am." He stroked her cheek very gently. "So, if you see me behaving like that, you _know_ it's not real."

She smiled, lifting her hand to cover his. "You know," she went on after a moment, "I actually feel sorry for Janine now. To think you cared about her when you didn't. Even if she _was _a scheming, conniving little -."

"You don't know anything about her," he interrupted. "You don't know what problems she was facing, so don't judge her."

"Even the papers? That was a horrible thing to do."

He shrugged. "True, but she made money out of it – money that she needed once it was clear that she could finally be free of Magnusson – yes, she was one of his victims too."

"At the hospital, you said something about her being pragmatic, not wanting things she couldn't have. You seemed to like her."

"I _did_ – very much in fact. She was far more intelligent than she pretended to be."

Something in her eyes – some uncertainty at this revelation - made him lean over and kiss her softly before drawing back slightly. "I'm not in love with _her_, though."

"Sherlock…" His face was still very near; her breath mingled with his before she leaned forward to capture his lips once more, gripping his shirt with one hand to keep him close. He was slower to react this time, she noted, his actions calmer than they had been back at 221B. His warm palm curved around the back of her head almost soothingly, as his mouth opened to her questing tongue. He was temporarily pliant under her hands and mouth, seemingly allowing her to choose the pace.

Her spare hand ghosted briefly over the pulse in his neck and she felt the beat pick up slightly as she bit and sucked at that tempting lower lip. A low quiet moan escaped his throat and he rolled over, partly on top of her, both hands tangling in her hair as he began to take back the initiative, exploring her mouth more thoroughly. She felt a muscular thigh coming over her body, effectively pinning her to the bed as he ground his hips into hers.

She felt her own heart speed up – partly in response to the feel of his warm lean body pressing her into the mattress and partly because the move itself seemed daring for Sherlock. Did he – was he _really_ ready to take this to the next level? Was this _it_? As his tongue explored her mouth and one of his hands trailed lightly down the side of her neck, it occurred to her that he was either a _very_ quick learner or had been doing some serious research. She could only hope that the research had been purely theoretical. A brief spark of jealousy at the thought of the alternative made her loosen her grip on his shirt to put her arm around him, running her hand firmly down his spine and over his buttocks. He moaned again – a beautiful low rich sound that turned her insides to warm liquid – and pushed his hips into her more rhythmically.

Despite his obvious excitement, the evidence of which she could feel pressing into her lower belly, he seemed happy to take things slowly. He ran his fingers down her side, brushing over her breast almost teasingly, and rested them on her hip in a leisurely manner, as if they had all the time in the world. She wondered in a dazed way what it was that he'd wanted to discuss with her in the first place, and whether in fact that _had_ been an excuse to come into her bedroom. And yet he hadn't _seemed_ to want this when she'd first woken up – he'd seemed concerned that she'd misinterpreted his intentions…

Almost as if he was reading her thoughts, he eased out of the heated kiss, pulling his head back and putting a firm hand on her chest when she automatically tried to follow him. His eyes closed briefly as he fought for a moment to control his rapid breathing. He gave her a wry almost apologetic smile, while at the same time gripping her waist tightly, as if to stop her moving away. "_This_ was not in the plan. You're distracting me from the case at hand."

She laughed, shakily, removing her hand. "Nice to know that I _can_…although, thinking about it, I guess I wouldn't be _altogether_ happy to carry on with this while Sherrinford is sleeping in the next room. I think I'd rather we were alone."

From the startled look in his eyes, she could tell that he'd temporarily forgotten that his long-lost brother was in the next room.

Taking pity on him, she removed his hand from her waist and shifted out from underneath him, smiling at his grunt of protest. "Tell me about him." She settled herself more comfortably on her pillow, cushioning her head with her arm.

He blinked, still seeming a little dazed with passion. "Is this really the time? Molly, I need to _think_ -."

"No you don't," she interrupted, quickly. "You're going around in circles at the moment – you can't see the wood for the trees. If you want to sound out your theories on me then _fine_, we can do that, but tell me about him first. _Come on_, Sherlock. I promise not to try to distract you again."

He smiled at that. "What do you want to know?"

She repressed a sigh. "_I_ don't know – your childhood maybe? What was he like? Did he dislike Mycroft as much as you and if so, why did he start working for him? And why are you so convinced that he's not interested in Irene Adler? And – most importantly – why have you never told us about him? Does _John_ know that he exists?"

He shifted a little, perhaps made uncomfortable by his waning erection. He turned onto his side more, wriggling his hip into the mattress and bringing up his arm to cradle his head. It was an exact reflection of her own position, but she didn't know if it was deliberate – in the dim light, his face looked distracted.

"You're imagining a mildly humorous scenario in which the two younger Holmes brothers teamed up to torment older brother Mycroft and get into trouble with their parents. You're quite wrong. We – all three of us – were…individuals. Mycroft had his books and his photography – he was very keen at that stage. I was fascinated by the natural world. And Sherrinford? He was always in his room, fiddling with some piece of technology or another. Mummy hated that – she used to say that at least I was outside most of the time and Mycroft would usually sit reading in the corner – but Sherrinford would lock himself away for hours. He'd acquire old computers, cameras, walkie talkies, even early mobile phones, any piece of tech he could get his hands on, and would spend hours taking it apart and putting it back together." He smiled, reminiscently. "At school, he was the bespectacled geek, founder of the computer club back in the day when the school possessed a single IBM 5150 and the keen boys would queue up for a five minute session. Mycroft and I simply didn't fit in, but boys _liked_ Sherrinford. He had a way about him, which meant that even though he _should_ have been a target for the school bullies, he wasn't…"

His voice trailed off. Molly sensed that he could say a lot more about those bullies if he chose to. Was that part of the reason why he and Mycroft had sought to close themselves off from emotions in their adult lives? Exactly what had been the catalyst? She wished she could talk to Sherlock's mother – perhaps she could shed light on what had gone so badly wrong for at least two of her sons.

Wordlessly, she reached out her spare hand in the darkness to take his. He returned the comforting squeeze and kept his fingers entwined with hers as he went on.

"You thought that perhaps we ganged up on Mycroft due to our similar ages." He smiled. "Well, perhaps we _did_ from time to time. Mycroft was…deeply irritating. Smug, superior, too clever, thought he always knew best."

She hid her smile at this apt description of someone not too far away from her at the moment.

"Occasionally, when he'd _really_ annoyed me, I might play a trick on him – plant a home-made stink bomb in his bedroom, that kind of thing." He chuckled lightly. "A frog in his bed was a favourite – Mycroft was, and still is, terrified of them. Most of the tricks he could predict and avoid, but sometimes I managed to surprise him. Our arguments used to drive our parents mad. Sherrinford would never get involved, though. He didn't stick up for me but didn't favour Mycroft either.

"I remember some occasion when Mycroft was particularly obnoxious over dinner – Mummy insisted we always dine together, no matter what - and he was making snide comments about my 'pointless' experiments. Ridiculous really, because if _anyone_ should have been concerned about my 'lack of application', it ought to have been Dad - and yet _he_ never said a word. But Mycroft liked to nag – the implication being that I was wasting my time and opportunity for a sparkling career. By fifteen, he already had plans to join the Service.

"Sherrinford was sitting quietly, eating his dinner and paying no attention to us as usual. But as we left the table, he slipped something in my pocket without saying a word. It was a circular container, resembling those little plastic containers that old films were stored in and that Mycroft had hundreds of due to his hobby. I was able to leave it on his desk among his other films. It contained a tiny gadget with a recording of a common frog's croak. It would emit the sounds at random intervals and Sherrinford had rigged it so that the sound was 'thrown' across the room. Mycroft spent most of the night trying to locate the frog that he could hear somewhere in his room – he was too scared to go to sleep."

She laughed at the image, moving a little closer to rest her face against his shoulder. He took his arm out from under his head and wriggled it underneath her, pulling her tighter against him.

"Mycroft went off to university when I was eleven and Sherrinford twelve, and never really came home again. I didn't see any more of Sherrinford than I had before. He wasn't particularly unsociable, but he didn't like to be interrupted when he was working on something, and by the time he was in his teens, he was designing his own electronic devices. He started out by creating his own computer games or improving on the commercially available ones, which made him popular at school of course, but he soon moved on to other projects. By twenty, he was away at university studying computer science, but when he was home, he'd be installing hidden cameras around the house, recording devices, tracking equipment…"

Sherlock paused for breath before going on. Molly closed her eyes, enjoying his warmth and the comforting rumble of his voice deep in his chest. "Mummy and Dad used to go mad, but in retrospect, I think they were probably quite concerned. The thing about Sherrinford is that despite his genius for all things technical, he was – and still _is_ – quite an innocent in many ways. He's too trusting, especially of anyone with specific IT talents. They feared he would be led astray. They must have said something to Mycroft, who had sailed through his law degree in two years instead of three, and was now _apparently_ in a junior position at the civil service while actually working as an operative for MI6. _Naturally_, he had an eye for an opportunity. He hadn't paid much attention to Sherrinford in the past, but he started to visit frequently and talk to him, to draw him out and gain his confidence. I didn't see much of that, as I'd gone to Cambridge to study chemistry and rarely went home. He must have been persuasive though, as the next thing I knew, Sherrinford had gone straight into the Service after graduation.

"I thought then – and still do – that it was a mistake. In theory, he fit the Service well. He's a – a _noble_ person, if I can put it like that. Quietly patriotic, without being bombastic, discreet, serious about his work, always wanting to do the 'right thing'." He sighed, his fingers moving restlessly over her back. "It's not _his _fault that, in Mycroft's line of work, it's not always easy to define the 'right thing'."

He fell silent. After a few minutes, Molly prompted him gently. "And Irene Adler?"

Sherlock sighed again before continuing, his other arm coming up to hold her more tightly. Her face was pressed into his neck and she closed her eyes again, savouring the spicy scent of his aftershave.

"You don't know all that happened with Adler and…well, I'll tell you everything one day, but suffice it to say that I was called in by Mycroft _initially_ to obtain incriminating photographs of a minor Royal. Later on, she passed details to Moriarty of a joint operation by MI6 and the CIA to foil a terrorist plot and also attempted to blackmail Mycroft. That was _my_ fault."

She moved her head to look up at him. "How so?"

He was silent for a moment. "I – it's a little complicated. However, her plans failed and she later fell foul of Al-Qaeda…and I had to rescue her from that situation… You might call it returning a favour, I suppose…"

She settled down again, feeling warm and sleepy. "And where did Sherrinford come into it?"

"Ah…well, I suspect that I wasn't Mycroft's first choice of brother – he no doubt went to the more amenable one first. Possibly he thought Sherrinford might use some technological wizardry to retrieve Adler's data – he failed of course, because she was too clever to be caught out that way, hence my involvement. All the same, he became fascinated with her. The first I knew of it was after Adler's disappearance. I had her phone – kept it as some kind of memento, I suppose – and Sherrinford asked to have it back. Apparently, he'd been retrieving the contents, some of which were encrypted, and Mycroft had taken it from him. I thought it was an odd request, and initially I was reluctant." He paused. "You have to understand – I felt nothing…_sexual_ for Irene Adler. It was _fascination_ – I was simply fascinated by her mind. That's all. She was the one person who got the better of me."

She moved her head slightly and pressed a light kiss in the dip at the base of his throat. "You don't have to explain to me."

"I know, but… Anyway, Sherrinford's motives were much the same, I suspect. How, I don't know, but he traced her and – I guess – tried to convince her to come and work with me. What he didn't know was the degree to which she was still involved with Moriarty."

"Do you think he had something over her?"

"I…am not sure. I think it's possible that she simply recognised his power and decided to do a deal with the devil. He wanted to hurt me and to do so, he had to disempower Mycroft. He did that in two ways – firstly by threatening the nation and secondly by threatening _me_… To do that, he showed Mycroft the full reach of his power by attacking Sherrinford. Oh, it was Irene Adler who set up the so-called 'evidence' that Sherrinford was selling US state secrets, but it was under Moriarty's direction. Killing Sherrinford wouldn't be enough for him. He wanted Mycroft to see that he could manipulate everything and everyone to his own ends - even the CIA. And he could dangle Sherrinford's continuing safety under Mycroft's not inconsiderable nose. He could promise that one of his brothers would be safe just so long as Mycroft was prepared to sell his other brother." His voice sounded bitter and she stroked his chest comfortingly.

"Do you think -," she began, cautiously, "- that Mycroft put _Sherrinford's_ safety before your own?"

The pause was so long that she began to think he wouldn't answer. "From Mycroft's perspective, it was logical. Sherrinford wouldn't have survived the general US prison system; he's far too naïve. It would have destroyed him. I don't know what power Moriarty had, and over who, but it sounds as if Sherrinford received preferential treatment."

"And what about _you_?" she asked, roused briefly from her somnolent state by indignation on his behalf.

She felt his chest rumble with amusement. "Oh, I didn't need Mycroft's protection. I've always been a survivor."

"True," she agreed, settling herself more comfortably on his chest again. As her eyes began to close, she mumbled, "So, what was it you wanted to discuss with me?"

He shifted onto his back, his arms settling around her, comfortably. "It can wait."

* * *

When Molly woke again, in broad daylight, she was alone.

For a moment, it seemed as if the previous night must have been some strange and wonderful dream, but then she opened her eyes fully and saw the indentation left in the other pillow by Sherlock's head. Of the man himself, there was no sign. She touched the pillow, trying to sense how long he'd been gone. It was stone cold.

Sitting up quickly, she turned towards the door. It was closed, but she heard a low rumble of voices. Sherrinford must be awake too, and she assumed the brothers were resuming their discussion from the night before.

She lay back down, stretching out and feeling a warm glow of contentment. Just to see him again would have been enough to elate her, but to be kissed and held by him, even if they hadn't got much further than before, had been _perfect_… She felt a wide grin stretch her face from ear to ear.

After luxuriating in her memories for a few indulgent minutes, she resolved to get up. She hummed cheerfully under her breath as she pushed the duvet back and searched for her dressing gown. It wasn't all that often that Molly felt utterly happy, and she resolved to keep her rare good mood for as long as possible, whatever the day ahead might hold.

So, it was a sudden and severe shock to push open the bedroom door...and find Irene Adler sitting in a chair in her living room, smiling back at her.


	26. Chapter 26

**Dear all, usual apologies for lateness (Easter holidays and all that), and usual disclaimers.**

* * *

**Chapter 26**

Molly stopped dead in the doorway, a stupid smile frozen to her lips.

The knowing smirk on the face of the dark-haired woman staring back at her didn't falter. One perfectly plucked eyebrow arched slightly at her confusion, but beyond that, the woman didn't seem remotely surprised by Molly's sudden – and rather bedraggled - appearance.

She perched delicately on an upright chair in the lounge, her dark eyes focused unwaveringly on Molly. Whether by choice or coincidence, she was positioned directly opposite Molly's bedroom door and looked rather like a vulture hovering in front of an intended victim.

Molly had not a shred of a doubt that _this_ was the notorious Irene Adler. Even though she had only a vague notion of the woman's face, the alabaster skin, glossy black hair and the – her eyes dropped and _yes_, _there they were_ – the perfectly polished red nails all gave the woman's identity away. Now that she had the genuine article in front of her, it seemed absurd that she had ever suspected poor clumsy laboratory assistant Rosie Perry of being Irene Adler. It was like mistaking a lively Labrador puppy with a sleek Persian cat.

She resisted the overwhelming urge to dash back into her room, shut the door behind her and lock it. Reminding herself that this glamorous stranger happened to be sitting in _her_ flat, quite casually as if she bloody well _owned _the place, she pulled her shabby dressing gown over her chest and drew herself up to her full height, preparing to say something _utterly_ scathing.

Instead, all that emerged was an outraged squeak. "What…? How…?" Her eyes took in the fact that there was no sign of Sherlock or Sherrinford in the lounge. Surely they hadn't just gone out and left her at risk…? "H-how did you get in here?"

The woman gave no reply; merely laughing lightly and crossing her legs with a quick delicate movement. Molly noticed that she was dressed from head to foot in tailored black – an expensive linen skirt suit, silk stockings and designer shoes with eye-wateringly high heels. Her hair was piled up on her head with a few artfully arranged wisps hanging down the sides of her beautiful face. She had completed the look with a discreetly expensive-looking pearl necklace around her delicate neck, and Molly noticed the sparkling solitaire diamond ring on her left hand. For a woman who allegedly used sex as a tool for information and blackmail, she looked surprisingly demure right now.

"Don't even bother to ask, Molly. Ms Adler is an expert at gaining illegal entry."

Molly jumped, her head shooting towards the kitchen. Sherlock was standing in the doorway, his arms folded and looking distinctly unamused as he glared at Irene Adler. She noticed that he was still barefoot, yesterday's shirt and trousers looking rather crumpled, and wondered whether he felt as much at a disadvantage as she did. He didn't glance in Molly's direction; his entire attention was focused on their unwelcome visitor.

Irene Adler's eyes darted towards Sherlock, her delicate nose twitching slightly, as if she was trying to assess the situation. She smiled, slowly, lazily. "Well, _you_ would know, _Mr_ Holmes. You're rather the expert at breaking and entering yourself."

Molly noted the ironic emphasis on the 'Mr' and wondered whether Ms. Adler had assumed that her association with Sherlock was informal enough for the use of first names. Perhaps Sherlock was being deliberately formal with this woman for _her_ – _Molly's _– sake; perhaps he was embarrassed to be caught in the same place with both women? However, he didn't have the demeanour of a man who'd been caught out by a meeting between a former and current lover…then again when had Sherlock _ever _looked seriously embarrassed? Right now, he simply seemed impatient – and entirely unimpressed by Ms. Adler's beauty.

"Why don't you get on with whatever it is you have come here to say," he demanded. "I'm assuming you have a good reason."

Molly realised suddenly that they may have been in discussion for some time before she'd appeared. The voice she had heard when she first woke must have been Sherlock talking to Ms. Adler rather than to Sherrinford.

There was still no sign of the third Holmes' brother and she decided not to mention him, in case the woman didn't know where he was currently located. Sherlock, glancing in her direction, had obviously caught the direction of her thoughts; he gave her the minutest shake of his head before focusing on Adler again.

The woman shrugged her shoulders. "I've already _told_ you why I'm here. If you can't accept that you've made a mistake, then perhaps your brother is right about you." She gave Molly a casually dismissive glance. "You are…compromised by emotion. And perhaps I'm wasting my time asking you for help."

"_Help_?" Molly burst out; she couldn't help it, even though Sherlock made a quick gesture as if to hush her. "Why would _you_ need his help? Surely you have your own resources? And why should you expect him to help you, after all that you've done?"

Ms. Adler's coldly beautiful eyes ran over her with a little more interest. The woman's lingering scrutiny, all the way down her body and then back up to her face, felt rather personal, perhaps even professional, if all of the rumours Molly had heard were true. She found herself getting a little hot and bothered under such frank appraisal. Out of the corner of her eye, she was aware of Sherlock making another abrupt movement, as if prepared to intervene.

There was just a moment of tension and then Adler seemed to relax fractionally. Her head dipped a little to one side and her body language altered in some undefinable way – she suddenly seemed less forbiddingly attractive and more girlishly friendly.

"You're quite right, Molly – may I call you Molly? My name is Irene. This must seem odd to you after what happened in the past – no doubt Sherlock has given you the details…or some of them at least. But – and you may find it hard to believe this - I've moved on from…all _that_." She lifted her left hand, subtly drawing attention to the beautifully cut gem on the third finger.

Molly glanced at Sherlock and saw him eyeing it dubiously. "Should we congratulate you, then? Who is the _lucky_ man?" He glanced at her face and corrected himself. "Or, presumably, _lucky woman_?"

Irene's eyes flashed at him. Molly suspected she might have been a little offended by his comment; she produced a lazy smile that looked a little forced. "Lucky _woman_, naturally. I haven't changed _that_ much, Sherlock." She looked over at Molly with an expression that seemed to invite confidences. "So you see, Molly, you needn't have worried about me after all."

Molly wasn't at all sure about _that_, but she asked, with genuine curiosity. "Who are you marrying?"

Irene shook her head slightly, becoming abruptly more business-like. "No one you are likely to have met. Anyway, Sherlock wanted me to 'get on with it', so I will. I want my name cleared. Not about the past – my fiancée knows all about my former career and she has no problem with it. None at _all_, in fact," she murmured, just loud enough to be heard, with a brief and meaningful smile at Molly. Her soft expression changed abruptly as she turned back to Sherlock, giving him a hard look. "I want to know precisely _who_ is masquerading as me and trying to discredit my name with these cyber-attacks."

"So you deny that it was you who set up the Moriarty stunt and the security override?" Sherlock's eyes were narrowed as he stared at her. Molly fancied that although his arms were still folded in a defensive manner, his body language had relaxed a little. His expression was as much interested as it was hostile.

Irene sighed in a put-upon manner. "There was a time that I would have _relished_ being a suspect in your ongoing battles with your nemesis – or should that be _nemeses_, since there appears to be more than one? - but _not now_. My fiancée doesn't care to be caught up in such matters – she is the CEO of a multinational company and she has a reputation to protect. She won't be prepared to go through with the wedding as long as this false allegation is hanging over me."

"I'm surprised that _you_ should be so interested in getting married," Sherlock commented, obviously curious. "Isn't casual more your style?"

"Perhaps you are not the _only_ one to have changed in the last few years," she replied softly, giving him an enigmatic look. "Is it so difficult to assume that I might have feelings too?"

Sherlock looked genuinely puzzled for a moment. "Frankly? _Yes._"

"_Ouch_," she responded, giving him a mock-pained look. In reality, she didn't seem remotely offended and in fact Molly had the impression from the sparkle in those dark eyes that the woman was enjoying herself. "Well, in any case, I had _nothing_ to do with either event. And someone knows enough to impersonate me – both offline _and_ online."

"Oh – do you mean… so you're _not_ VaticanCameos?" Molly asked, remembering the silent presence in that chat room she had participated in.

Irene rolled her eyes. "No, I'm _not _– and I wouldn't have known about that chat room if my attention hadn't been drawn to it. I have people whose job it is to keep an eye on anything from my past that might…compromise me. As soon as I was informed and given a transcript and a list of participants, I asked myself two crucial questions: _who_ would understand the significance of VaticanCameos, and _who_ would know that _I_ would understand the significance? John Watson was out of the question, of course, and the two CIA agents are now dead. And, in any case, it's a woman - there are certain indications in the behaviour. This individual set up the chat room to imply that I was still showing an interest in Sherlock, and she's _very_ good at drawing out the lonely, the impressionable, the deluded, the obsessed…almost all of them women. That's a woman's mind. And she deliberately chose a name that would draw Sherlock's attention and make him believe it was me."

She turned her attention to Sherlock, leaning forward. "By involving Molly in that chat room, you may have put her at more risk than you realised – oh yes, I worked out _exactly_ what you were trying to do. You assumed that it was me and that I was seeking some form of revenge for the danger you put me in years ago; you thought that I might use Molly to get to _you_, without actually harming her because I would perceive her as too unimportant. But, as it turns out, you're now dealing with an entirely _unknown_ entity. You have no idea what her motive might be…only that she knows how to get to you, as shown by the Moriarty stunt, that she has considerable power, as demonstrated by the mass break-in, and that she will continue in her quest. She will stop at _nothing_, until she gets what she wants." She leaned back in her chair. "Whatever that might be."

Sherlock unfolded his arms, walking further into the room. "Why should _you_ care?"

She shrugged again, examining her immaculate fingernails. "I _don't_, particularly. As far as I'm concerned, we're all square. You put me in a very awkward position with Jim Moriarty, even after my intervention saved your life at the swimming pool, _but _on the other hand, _you_ saved _my_ life in Pakistan. Fair's fair. Only, I don't care for someone impersonating me. I have moved on and that chapter of my life is behind me – or should be. I want it _finished_, Sherlock – I don't care what you have to do."

Sherlock sat down, pulling his chair to face her, as Molly continued to watch from the side lines. "I see… So _that_ explains Sherrinford. Was his release some form of advance payment?"

She was still for a moment. "I should have guessed you would know about that… Not an 'advance payment', no, but you could view it as a gift if you like." She paused. "I did – quite genuinely – feel guilty about Sherrinford. I liked him, actually." She smiled wryly. "In my profession, you get used to being viewed a certain way, so it was quite refreshing to meet someone who was more interested in my brain than my body – and _wasn't_ a psychopath. But he was no match for Moriarty. I didn't have any concern about _your_ safety, but I _did_ worry about Sherrinford." She mused. "Actually, I may have done him a favour. He might have become another of Jim's victims if I hadn't got him out of the way."

"I don't think he saw it quite that way," Sherlock replied, acerbically.

Her eyes narrowed. "You and I know there are worse fates."

"Worse than a high-security U.S. prison? For _Sherrinford_?" he said, incredulously. "He wouldn't have lasted a week in the general prison system."

"Then it's lucky that he had certain unique skills, wasn't it?" She raised one of those perfectly plucked eyebrows. "In any case, I don't believe _you_ lifted a finger to help prove his innocence."

Sherlock glared at her. "I was preoccupied…as you know perfectly well."

She rolled her eyes at Molly in a confidential manner. "Brotherly love. Are you _certain_ you want him? He'll break your heart over and over – you _do_ know that?" Her eyes raked Molly's face and body in that over-personal manner again. "I'm beginning to suspect that with a little work on the basics, you could do _so_ much better."

Molly lifted her chin defiantly, refusing to dignify this with a reply.

Irene sighed, appearing to get the message. "Well, there's no accounting for taste. Rather a shame really…"

"Can we get back to the facts," Sherlock interrupted, impatiently. "Who else, besides those who were in the room at that time, could associate Vatican Cameos with the two of us? What about that personal assistant of yours – Kate, was it?"

A brief expression of pain flitted across Irene's pale face. "No. She's out of the frame."

Sherlock furrowed his brow as he stared at her, reading the facts. "Ah, yes. Dead, killed violently about three years' ago. Took a bullet intended for you, probably. And you feel guilty. She was more than a mere assistant, of course."

"_Sherlock_," Molly muttered, embarrassed by his callous recanting of the facts.

Irene's face hardened. "No one else was present at the time. But what makes you think it was that occasion that gave you away? Presumably you had used that phrase to alert Dr Watson to the need to dodge on previous occasions. Don't you think Moriarty might have known about it?"

Sherlock gave a dry laugh. "And back we go to James Moriarty! The man is _dead_! Am I the only one who knows that? Even my own brother can't accept it!" He leaned closer to her. "And _you_? Have you been sent messages from beyond the grave? Been led to believe that he faked his death?"

Her expression was undecipherable. "I can only tell you that _I_ have not received any communication from him since you took your fall from that building. I _had_ presumed him dead. But what makes you so certain that you've destroyed his entire web?"

He sighed, slumping in his chair and examining the backs of his hands. "I…_believed_ I had."

Irene looked at him silently, and Molly could have sworn that there was compassion in her face for just the briefest of moments.

"This woman is connected to Moriarty in some way," she said, eventually. "I'm certain of it, and just remember, Sherlock, whatever _he_ knew about you, _she_ now knows. Why she has waited so long to act, I don't know, but she has a vendetta against you – and _no one_ who gets in her way is safe." Her eyes flickered to Molly momentarily. "_No one_."

Her implication was obvious, but Molly wasn't certain that Sherlock had noticed; he was still staring at his hands.

"Well, I've given you all the facts I can, so it's up to you." Irene stood, picking up a small glossy black handbag as she did so. "I'm _serious_, by the way, Sherlock. I will _not_ allow this to ruin my future. Sort it out. Oh -," she added, "– you might also tell your brother to leave me alone. I don't appreciate being followed."

"Which brother?" Sherlock asked, utterly deadpan, although it was clear that he was startled by this fresh intelligence.

Irene didn't bother to respond to this. She gave Molly a cheerful smile, and once again the 'mystery woman' persona was cast aside in favour of 'girl next door'. "My regards to you, Molly. And I wish you luck – and not just with Sherlock. Remember, you are a potential target for this woman, whoever she is."

She turned – not in the expected direction of the front door, but towards Molly, and brushed past her, walking into the bedroom.

Confused by this unexpected turn of events, Molly spun around to see Irene perched on the sill by the window, which she now saw was open. So…Irene must have been in the bedroom, slipping past her as she slept! She felt a cold prickle of sweat at the base of her spine at the thought. Had Sherlock been there too? Had Irene stopped and observed them sleeping?

She felt Sherlock come alongside her, his arm brushing hers as he watched Irene secure her handbag by slipping the long strap over her head and shoulder.

"And you _really_ intend to get married?" His voice sounded highly dubious.

"Why not?" She laughed. "I _would_ suggest you give it a try, but then I wouldn't wish a lifelong commitment to _you _on my worst enemy…and certainly not on Molly."

Sherlock snorted, seeming unconcerned by the insult. "Monogamy - _you_? You'll be bored out of it within a week."

"Try nearly four years… and _still_ not bored. The real question is: will _you _be able to say the same in four years' time?" Her dark eyes rested on Molly, who had the distinct feeling that the question might not have been aimed at Sherlock at all.

Irene gave them a wink and a final smile before elegantly lifting her legs over the window sill and dipping her dark head under the window. With graceful, agile moves, she swung herself across onto the fire escape that ran from the roof down the side of the building and then disappeared swiftly from view.


	27. Chapter 27

**Hi everyone! Thanks as always for all the lovely reviews and favourites!**

**I should warn you now that I intend to make this story rather darker over the next few chapters. I'm sorry about that, and I hope you don't hate me for it. It's just the way the story is going.**

* * *

**Chapter 27**

As Irene Adler disappeared from sight, Molly found herself letting out a tense breath that she hadn't been aware of holding.

"So _that's_ how she did it," Sherlock muttered. He crossed the room quickly and stuck his head out, peering below to where, presumably, Irene was currently descending the metal steps into the narrow alleyway that ran behind the block of flats. Molly couldn't see why he was all that surprised, given that it was the route that _he_ habitually took whenever he wanted to break in. In the circumstances, she was beginning to feel that she needed to look seriously at the security of her flat.

"I assumed you'd just let her in the front door," she said after a moment. Her voice sounded stilted, even to her own ears.

He turned his head to frown at her. "_Hardly_. I was on the laptop when she suddenly appeared right behind me."

She bit her lip, thinking about Irene's warning. "Is she telling the truth?"

"What?" He stood up, shutting the window in a distracted manner. She could tell that his mind was already racing, considering all the possibilities thrown up by Irene Adler's story, and probably looking for weaknesses in it.

"I _said_," she repeated, slowly. "Is she telling the truth?" Finding that her hands were trembling, she quickly folded her arms.

He paused, his face suddenly wary as he took in her body language. "She…may be."

"_May be_?" She glared at him. "What does that even _mean?_ Either she's responsible or she's not. You must be able to tell, surely?"

"Why are you so certain that I can?"

She rubbed the back of her neck in frustration. "Oh_, come on_, Sherlock! This is not some kind of game. If she says she's not responsible and she's telling the truth, then – then _someone else_ must be, and they're still out there somewhere! And meanwhile, _I've_ been looking out for the wrong woman the whole bloody time..." She broke off, remembering Irene's warning about Sherlock placing her in the path of an unknown and potentially dangerous individual.

He observed her in an objective, almost cold, manner. "Do you know that you sounded just like John then? He said that – about it 'not being a game'."

"Why? Because I have a sense of responsibility?" She paced the bedroom, her arms still folded. "Because I don't find it particularly amusing that some kind of psycho is out there once more - trying to get your attention _once more_? Someone who scares even _Irene bloody Adler_ -."

"Oh, so you think she's genuinely scared?" he broke in, his voice thick with sarcasm. "Of _course_ you would, if she wants you to think that. She's a very clever, manipulative woman – not to be underestimated. It's just possible that this is a double-bluff... _Damn Mycroft_!" he growled suddenly, stopping dead. "Why didn't he _tell _me she was out of the CIA?"

"Well, she seemed genuine to _me_." she snapped.

He gestured at her, impatiently. "And that's _precisely_ why she can't be trusted. Irene Adler is an expert at human psychology and a consummate actor. In _your _case, she was able to gain your trust and sympathy in a very short time by projecting a 'girl next door' image." He shook his head, running his hands through his unruly hair to make it stand on end. "That persona worked very well on _John_ too…once he was able to raise his eyes above chest level."

She stared at him. "I see… I suppose _that _comment has something to do with the fact that you were able to identify her supposedly dead body from…_not_ her face. Clearly you had the same problem as John with raising your eye level."

He glared. "Yes, Molly, this is, of course, an _excellent_ time to start getting a ridiculous complex about a woman stripping off to make an admittedly unforgettable entrance. As if it matters even _remotely _when we need to identify who has been impersonating her – and work out how, and _why_, Mycroft has been lying to me."

She felt her mouth drop open unattractively. "You _really _mean that – don't you? It really is _more _important to you that your brother has managed to get one over you… For _God's sake_, Sherlock! I don't give a _toss_ what you and Irene got up to, or didn't get up to, in the past!"

She strode past him into the living room and then paused, feeling her breath coming quickly. She closed her eyes briefly, trying to calm herself before going on in a more measured voice.

"Doesn't it occur to you that I _might_ be more concerned about your latest stalker? What if I've met her? What if she -," she swallowed, her throat feeling tight. "What if she has been following me – what if she knows where I live?"

"She won't harm you." His voice was close behind her.

She opened her eyes, staring at the ceiling. "You can't know that for certain. You can't make that promise."

"She won't." He grasped her shoulder roughly and pulled her to face him. His face was tense and strained, his eyes hard. "_She. Won't_. I learnt my lesson before – with Moriarty. This is _not_ a game. Don't you trust me, Molly?"

She gazed up at him for a long moment before sighing and pushing his hand off her arm. "I _want_ to. But you – I believed you were right about Irene. And now I'm wondering…what if _Mycroft's _right? What if Moriarty is still alive and this really _is_ something to do with him?"

He turned away from her abruptly, his body language stiff and angry. Belatedly, she realised that mentioning Mycroft's theory hadn't been a good idea. Sherlock _hated_ to be proved wrong – and it was still worse to be wrong-footed by his older brother. She half raised a hand to touch his unyielding back in a mute attempt at comfort…and then dropped it again. Sighing mentally, she turned towards the kitchen. She desperately needed a cup of coffee.

"Where's Sherrinford?" she asked, not really expecting an answer.

There was a pause and then: "He left this morning before dawn." His voice was distant; deliberately bland. She sensed that he was attempting to diffuse the tension between them but wasn't sure how to. No doubt John had been the one to make all the conciliatory overtures in the past, and she doubted that Sherlock had ever cared enough about anyone else to make an effort.

"Really?" She paused in the doorway, looking back at him. "I thought he had nowhere to go."

He had moved over to the small dining room table, on which stood her laptop. "He does _now_. Spent the night sorting out a new identity and then headed off to collect the documents and establish a base. I don't know where. Said he needed to check something. He used your laptop to hack into the Home Office database, but removed all traces before he left. He seemed to be concerned that you would mind him involving your identity. I told him not to worry."

"_Great _– so _now_ I'm also in danger of being arrested for hacking. As if I didn't have enough to worry about," she said, sarcastically. "Anyway, I thought you said he'd gone to sleep."

"He _had_, but when I got up later, he was awake and working." He frowned at the look on her face as he sat at the table. "Oh, _come on_, Molly. The man's a genius – of _course_ he was able to work out your password."

"Of course," she muttered. She leaned on the door frame and looked at him bent over the laptop, and felt her remaining anger dissipate. What was the _point _of getting angry with someone like Sherlock? He'd never see someone else's point of view, especially when there was a case to be solved; he was utterly focused and she'd never change that. She should've known that by now… She _did_ know it.

It was just… There was a cold feeling in her stomach that she couldn't shake. She felt…odd. _Afraid. _Scared in a way that she hadn't been scared since Moriarty's death and Sherlock's fall. Back then, she'd had utter faith in him, which had carried her through, but this time, she didn't think that Sherlock could really help her…and _that _made her feel even more afraid. When was the last time that she _hadn't _had absolute faith in him?

She closed her eyes again briefly, hearing Mycroft's quiet reply when she'd reminded him that Sherlock had never let them down:

"_Indeed he hasn't…yet."_

And then Irene's last warning:

"_Remember, you are a potential target for this woman…whoever she is."_

Coffee. Coffee and breakfast. That was what she needed right now, to cast off her morbid thoughts. Something _normal_. She gave herself an impatient shake – and then suddenly remembered something else. The cold pillow when she woke up.

"Sherlock, did you sleep _at all_?"

His hands paused on the keyboard. "No. I don't always, as you know."

His voice sounded cautious. She realised that he must have left her bed soon after she'd fallen asleep and wasn't absolutely sure how she would react to that.

She shrugged, trying to be deliberately casual about it. "It's OK, I don't mind. I know you don't sleep much. You can do what you like, just as long as you don't wake me up by experimenting on me or something."

He didn't acknowledge her words, but his shoulders seemed a fraction more relaxed. She turned back into the kitchen to put the kettle on and sort out some breakfast.

He called out to her just as the kettle began to boil. "Sherrinford was able to provide some useful leads. He has his own theories concerning how the Moriarty 'message' was broadcast across all British media. It's not a _genuine_ recording of him – the perpetrator took a static image and used graphics software to manipulate it into moving image, with words added from previous recordings made by Moriarty. Someone who knows what he is doing, Sherrinford said."

"Or _she_," Molly corrected. "Or, at least…_Irene_ seemed to think it was a woman."

"Probably not working alone. She might be the mastermind, but she'll be relying on others to carry through her plans."

"Why not alone? I mean, you thought _Irene_ was working alone, didn't you?"

"Yes, because she _does _work alone; it wouldn't be in her nature to do anything else. I don't altogether buy that story about her employing minions to check the Internet for her. But _now_…" he frowned. "This woman is an unknown quantity. If she was working for Moriarty, she was _deep_ undercover, because I didn't trace her and neither did Mycroft."

His face darkened and she knew he was still furious about his brother's perceived deceit.

"Perhaps it's not _Mycroft_ who is following Irene," she suggested, quickly. It did seem odd that Mycroft hadn't told Sherlock, knowing he was trying to trace her. She felt it was unlikely that he would be that petty. "What if it's someone else? _Irene_ might be in danger too."

He paused, seeming to consider this, before shaking his head. "Unlikely. She's too clever to be caught out that way. Even more so _now_, I suspect, if her PA took a fatal bullet for her. And…it would appear that she now has someone else to live for. Or claims to." His voice betrayed his surprise at that fact.

Molly paused in thought before pouring out two mugs of coffee. "I wonder who she's going to marry?"

"That's easy to work out." He began to type a query into Google as she brought a mug and bowl through to him. "Let's see – CEO of a multinational. American. Thirtysomething, which suggests an impressive rise to power. Some connections with the CIA – perhaps she worked for them at some point… And - _of course_! - _that's_ how she got Sherrinford out! It's not _Irene_ who had the influence to achieve his release – it's _her_."

He turned the screen towards her and she looked at the unsmiling face of Elizabeth Evans Booth, the CEO of a large pharmaceutical company based in Bethesda. She was a blue-eyed blonde in her mid-thirties, with a rather forbidding expression as she gazed at the camera.

Sherlock pointed out the usual clues. "She has ex-military written all over her – see the obsessively neat hairstyle and the military-style jacket. She left the CIA to take over her father's company, and that's quite recent as evidenced by the expression of strain on her face. She's trying to look tougher than she feels. It's not a happy career move, but she's determined to make the best of it. She has a strong sense of family loyalty – that leather watch she's wearing is a family heirloom, and the colour of the strap doesn't go with her suit. Look at the bitten lips; a habit she's developed fairly recently. She's used to giving orders…which means that she may enjoy _taking_ them in her private life. Just the type to appeal to a dominatrix like Irene."

"_Really_?" She was intrigued. She'd gathered that Irene had been some kind of high-class sex worker, but hadn't been aware that BDSM had played any role.

"Er, yes… _Anyway_," he went on quickly, "this Elizabeth Evans Booth probably met Irene when she was arrested by the CIA after I rescued her from her little situation in Pakistan. She would have helped Irene to get into the deep cover retraining programme – a way of avoiding trial and imprisonment if she could convince them that she would cooperate. No doubt Irene deduced Booth's proclivities and used them to her own advantage… What's _that_?"

Molly placed the cup and bowl in his hands. "What does it look like?" she asked, sweetly. "Coffee, black, two sugars. Weetabix, milk and a sliced banana. _Eat_."

He scowled but took an obedient gulp of the strong coffee. She went back into the kitchen to grab her own breakfast and then sat down on the sofa. "So, do you think she just used Booth to get released from custody? Presumably she's out of the programme now… In that case, why get engaged to her?"

He frowned as he chewed a single spoonful of cereal before setting the bowl to one side. "I was wondering that. She _seemed_ genuine."

"Perhaps she really _is_ in love."

"I think she _must _be, impossible though that sounds. Clearly the CIA has taken a recent interest in her – probably Mycroft pushed them after that Moriarty stunt – and Ms. Booth isn't happy. She doesn't want any scandal. And Irene must have convinced Booth that I could help to clear her of any involvement, and that I would be more inclined to be helpful if they let Sherrinford go." He paused, thoughtfully. "The irony is that _Irene_ knows that it wouldn't have made the slightest difference to _me_ whether they'd released him or not…which suggests that she might not have been lying when she said she felt guilty about the false indictment…"

Molly shuddered at his cold, calculating tone; the lack of basic family affection between the Holmes brothers – first Sherlock and Mycroft, and now Sherrinford too - still had the power to disturb her from time to time.

"So," he continued, appearing not to notice her reaction, "Booth reopens the investigation and – what a surprise! – they just _happen_ to find the information that could have proved his innocence years ago. The CIA don't want a scandal either, so they hustle Sherrinford out as quickly as possible – no doubt Mycroft will have fun calling in the favours over the next few months. And Irene believes she has the leverage she needs to _compel_ me to act on her behalf." She noticed the way he snapped out the word 'compel'.

"And, of course, she is right," he added after a pause. "Not about clearing her name – I couldn't care less about _that_ – but I need to find out who this woman _is_ as soon as possible."

She put down her bowl of cereal, half eaten. "And we're back at square one."

"Not entirely." She noticed that he hadn't finished typing on the laptop, and got up to see what he was looking at.

He'd gone into her computer settings and was checking her Internet history, but after a few minutes, he stopped, clearly irritated. "_Damn Sherrinford_! He really has cleared all traces."

"Sherrinford? What do you mean? Does he know something?"

His eyes were distant as he gazed at the blank wall. "Oh, undoubtedly, which is why he rushed off. The question is why he doesn't want _me_ to know…" he frowned and then his expression cleared. "And the _answer _is that he _knows_ who could have pulled off that security hack at the department stores – or he suspects, anyway."

She frowned. "Does that mean it's someone inside the Service? Someone Sherrinford knows well?"

"Not necessarily. Sherrinford knows pretty much every hacker in the country – and several others – by the signature they leave." He waved his hand to illustrate. "Patterns of behaviour, specific targets, methods used, that kind of thing. And many of them he knows personally."

"If he _does_ know who the hackers are, then why doesn't he get them stopped? I mean, aren't they supposed to be a security risk? What if they committed some major terrorist act – hacked into the defence systems or something? Shouldn't he be helping to prevent that?"

He gave her an incredulous look. "What do you _think_ he's been doing up to now? You don't remove the threat _entirely_ by arresting all the players. It's a matter of…watching and waiting. Of making contacts; of allowing a certain degree of activity in order to watch for the anomalies – anything that might turn into a _major _threat. _That's_ Sherrinford's skill. He could pass for one of them if he chose… Anyway -," he turned off the laptop. "- that's a dead end. I need to get back to Baker Street – something I need to check -."

He sat down at the sofa to put on his socks and shoes. She leaned against the wall, watching him.

"Sherlock? What do _I_ do now?" She waved her hands vaguely. "I mean, now that we know it's not Irene…"

He didn't look at her as he tied his shoelaces with neat, precise actions. "Carry on as normal. Go to work, do your shopping. You haven't met Irene. And you haven't seen me for a long time. Go and see John and Mary, if you like."

"But what if -."

"You still have Mycroft's protection. You've got his private number, haven't you? Ring him if you're at all worried. It's best you don't try to contact me."

His voice was coldly impersonal, and she felt her temper mount again. "So that's it, is it? You're just going to walk out of here as if nothing's happened?"

He glared at her as he found his jacket and pulled it on. "_Yes_. I _am_ just going to walk out of here as if nothing's happened – because that's what I _do_, Molly! And you _knew_ that when you – when we -." He stopped and glared at the floor, struggling to express himself. She watched him, her arms folded defensively against the words that she knew were coming.

"It's not that I _don't_ care. It's not that I'm _not_ worried about your safety." His voice was stilted. "But it's how I operate – and I can't change that. Not for you, not for John, not for _anyone_. I have _already_ run the risk of making a fatal error with my focus on Irene Adler. I have wasted weeks, missed obvious clues because I was convinced it was her! I need to go back over everything -to sort it out in my head. If I'm to be _any_ good, I have to be _alone in here_!" He tapped his head. "Mycroft is – he's an obnoxious, devious, self-serving _bastard_, but he's…"

He stopped, but she finished for him. "He's _right_. _Caring is not an advantage_. That's what you were about to say, wasn't it?" She paused, waiting for him to argue. When he simply stared at her, she swallowed against a sudden lump in her throat. "Well…OK, then. You go on believing that, if it helps you get through this case. Maybe he's right, and _we've_ been wrong all along."

He gave her an utterly wretched look, but didn't attempt to deny her words. Her heart went out to him, but she couldn't bring herself to offer him even the cheap comfort of a smile.

He buttoned his jacket and coat with nimble fingers, his head bowed and his face turned away from her. She noticed afresh how unkempt he looked – unwashed, in yesterday's crumpled clothes, unshaven and with his curls more unruly than ever. With his head down, he looked…weary. Older. Beaten. Caught out by Irene, deceived by his brother. And she was frightened. Because if even _Sherlock _could be beaten, then who could she put her faith in?

And then his head snapped up, his expression hardened, and he was suddenly _Sherlock_ again. That slightly arrogant, utterly self-confident expression; those bright, all-seeing eyes. As he strode across the room towards her, he had the energy of a man half his age and all the purpose she had ever seen in him.

He gripped her by the shoulders and before she could move, his lips were on hers, kissing her in a hard, almost brutal, manner. She could feel the bristles on his chin grazing her lip. The kiss could have lasted no more than a few seconds before he pulled away and held her at arm's length, staring at her as if he was trying to memorise her features.

"She _won't _harm you," he whispered, his eyes almost black with their intensity. "She _won't_."

And then he let her go and was gone himself, his coat swishing as he spun and strode into the bedroom.

Leaning against the wall again and listening to the squeak of the bedroom window opening as he made his usual clandestine exit, she could only hope and pray that he was right.


	28. Chapter 28

**Hi everyone! Back on track after a strenuous walking holiday. I felt most unfit! Usual disclaimers and thanks apply.  
**

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**Chapter 28**

In recent weeks, Molly had formed a habit of visiting John, Mary and Eleanor on Sunday mornings. If she had nothing in particular to do, she'd stay for lunch and then take the baby for a walk to a nearby park to give her parents a break. The Watsons were usually easy-going and restful company if they could be kept off the touchy subject of Sherlock. She didn't think she was intruding too much; Mary didn't appear to have much in the way of family, as far as Molly could see, and she suspected that the inexperienced new mother was grateful for _any _help or company.

Having moped around the flat all day Saturday following Sherlock's departure in the morning, she was glad to have more of a focus to her second day off. However, on this particular Sunday, there was some new tension between the couple that transmitted itself to Molly, and possibly even baby Ellie, who was unusually fretful. She had the impression that John and Mary had been arguing before she arrived, probably over the consulting detective. John was pale, his lips set in an uncompromising line, and Mary seemed nervy, though both were friendly enough to Molly.

As the morning went on, she began to feel the strain of what the Watsons were very carefully _not_ talking about – namely Sherlock. It was clear that they both wanted to know what was happening, but didn't like to ask. She had a similar dilemma – she had no idea how much recent information they had, and she hadn't thought to ask whether or not she was able to tell them about the existence of Sherrinford. Since Sherlock and Mycroft hadn't troubled to hide his true identify from herself and Greg, she assumed it wouldn't matter if she _did_ tell the Watsons about his sudden appearance. But she was troubled by the fact that John almost certainly had never been told about a third Holmes brother and would be terribly hurt to find out from _her_ rather than from Sherlock.

She couldn't understand why Sherlock was continuing to keep his distance from John. In recent months, their relationship had seemed to have grown so much warmer than before the Fall. Remembering his oddly emotional speech at John and Mary's wedding, it occurred to her that their relationship had altered in a subtle way. The pre-Fall Sherlock had expected John to come running whenever he clicked his fingers, while the post-Fall Sherlock seemed to be far more concerned with his friend's welfare. Was he still trying to make amends for the past?

She cursed Sherlock mentally as she sought to find a neutral topic of conversation. Meanwhile, John grew more tight-lipped and Mary busied herself with fussing over her fractious daughter.

Molly was just contemplating the possibility of excusing herself from lunch with some made-up errand when her phone rang. She pulled it out, expecting to discover that Greg was checking up on her after Friday night, but stared in surprise at the name on her screen before answering.

"_Molly_." Sherlock cut in loudly before she had a chance to answer.

"Yes?" She carefully didn't say his name, even though he had spoken loud enough for John, sitting nearby, to hear and recognise his voice. "Um – I'm with John and Mary -."

"I know that," he interrupted, sharply. "You need to get out – all of you. _Now_."

"Sherlock – what -?" She stood up quickly, her eyes meeting John's as the tension in Sherlock's voice communicated itself to both of them.

"_Listen_ Molly – and don't interrupt, and _get moving_ while you listen." He was speaking rapidly, almost falling over his words. "I don't have much time – and nor do you. All of you – _get out now_. The neighbours too if you can, but don't mess around trying to find people. There's an explosive device planted somewhere on the premises – in the back yard, probably. The bomb squad and police are already on their way, but get out _now_."

"OK, but -." But, Sherlock had already cut off the call.

Molly looked over at John and Mary. The Watsons had clearly caught the urgency in Sherlock's tone on the phone as they were already up and moving; John had grabbed Ellie from her Moses basket, wrapping her securely in a blanket, while Mary was pulling on a coat and dashing around, picking up a prepared baby bag and another blanket. The three hurried to the door, Molly telling them breathlessly what Sherlock had told her as she grabbed her own duffel coat – it was a bitingly cold day in early March.

The Watsons currently occupied the first floor of a large Victorian detached house that had been converted into two flats. Their downstairs neighbour was an elderly widow coincidentally, but not even remotely in the Mrs Hudson mould, being a quiet, unfriendly, skinny woman with an obsession for feeding stray cats and a strong dislike of babies. It was _definitely_ a temporary arrangement while they found somewhere more child-friendly, Mary had once told Molly in a dark voice.

Mary shivered and took the baby off John, wrapping the thick blanket around her, while her husband banged on the elderly neighbour's door. Molly could hear the far-off high pitched wail of the sirens; the fire brigade approaching fast. Her sense of uneasiness increased and she tugged at Mary's elbow.

"We need to be further away." Sherlock had given no clue as to how big the bomb was. What if the blast took out the whole street? And when was it primed to go off?

Mary nodded, her hard blue eyes assessing the street and noting the curious faces looking out of nearby windows. "Let's ring on the doorbells as we go – you do that side and I'll do this. Take the bag – I can't manage that with Ellie as well." She raised her voice, addressing John. "Give it up – Mrs Haynes would have shouted by now if she was there, the racket you're making. She's probably not back from church yet."

Molly hurried across the road and began to run along it, ringing bells at random and shouting a warning at the heads poking out of the windows. A quick glance showed Mary making similar progress on the other side of the road, while John appeared to have given up on their neighbour and was sprinting in the opposite direction. There were flashing lights at both ends of the street now and she could hear a loudspeaker sounding a warning to the residents at the far end. The first of the large bomb disposal vehicles rumbled into the street and came to a stop.

Among the khaki-clad, heavily-armoured figures who poured from the white vehicle and came running towards her, it was easy to make out Sherlock's taller frame. His distinctive coat flew out behind him as he sprinted past the emergency vehicles and dodged the military personnel, ignoring the warning shouts. She stopped, suddenly short of breath, as he approached her.

He grabbed her by the shoulders roughly. "Where's _John_?" he demanded, his gaze sliding away from her even as he spoke, seeking out his friend. His eyes were wild, almost fearful.

She was taken aback for a moment – that wasn't _quite_ what she'd expected him to say. "Um – I think he went the other way."

He let go, giving her an impatient little push towards the end of the road as he ran off. "Get Mary and get back behind the cars," he shouted over his shoulder as he went.

She stared after him for a moment and then shook herself and hurried across to Mary. She was clutching Eleanor to her chest and looking back up the road, a frown on her face.

"Where's he gone?" she muttered, distractedly, taking a couple of steps back in the direction of the house before stopping again.

"Sherlock? I don't know – probably to locate the bomb. Come _on_, Mary, we need to get clear!" Molly tried to grab her shoulder, as several panicking neighbours hurried past them, clutching valuables, screaming kids and a variety of pets. "It could go off at any moment. What are you _doing_?"

She glanced frantically up the street. Police cars had been used to form a barrier, behind which the small crowd of bewildered evacuees were being ushered. Closer to them, she could see equipment being unloaded from the bomb disposal vans and hear orders being shouted. Any minute now, the shouting would be directed at them. The rest of the street was being cleared quickly, with police officers continuing to bang on the doors.

Mary seemed to be dithering – taking one step back and then another couple forward. She turned towards Molly, her face frantic. "Don't you _see_? He should be in _sight_! The idiot's gone around the side of the house – he's trying to find the bomb probably, or get that bloody woman out! How can he be so _stupid_…?"

Molly suddenly realised that Mary had been talking about John. She pulled at her arm. "You have to get Ellie out of here! Sherlock – he's there, he'll find John." She gestured vaguely in the direction of the house, even as her blood ran cold. Sherlock had _known_ John would do something reckless. And he was _frightened_…

Her breath caught as Mary's face twisted into an oddly bitter grimace. "_Sherlock_…" She paused and then suddenly thrust Eleanor into Molly's arms. "Here – get her clear – get back behind the barricades."

"Mary – _no_!" She screamed after the small blond figure who sprinted away from her, dodging deftly around the last few neighbours being escorted up the street. One of the officers saw her and shouted, taking off after her, but she easily outstripped him.

In an agony of indecision, Molly watched her disappear around the side of the house. Eleanor started to stir, snuffling in her sleep, and she clutched the baby tighter, shouldered the changing bag and turned away towards the safety of the barricade of police cars.

She squeezed through the gap in the cars and then, trying to avoid being jostled, fought her way through the crowds to a nearby shop doorway set in a wall. She didn't want to move very far - not without Sherlock, John and Mary - but she also needed to think of the baby's safety. The doorway provided a certain degree of cover and might just keep the flying debris off her and little Eleanor if a bomb _did_ go off.

She dropped the heavy bag and turned back towards the evacuated street, peering anxiously over the heads of the cordon of police. There was no sign of anyone now apart from the helmeted bomb squad, making its way slowly up the street. Surely Sherlock couldn't just be standing there, waiting for the disposal experts to arrive? She presumed he knew exactly where the bomb was, though, and it'd be just like him to try to investigate it for clues as to the identity of the perpetrator before it was disarmed.

As she waited, half-expecting and dreading an explosion at any moment, the crowds moved and parted slightly. Suddenly she spotted Sally Donovan.

The DS was loudly directing a couple of constables who were trying to keep order over both the evacuees and the nosy onlookers. The crowd was being pushed back further, and Molly saw the DS waving her arms, indicating that they needed to be cleared to the far side of the adjoining road. As she did so, she caught Molly's eye, did a slight double-take and then walked over.

"Might've known _you'd_ be caught up in this," she groused, but without any real heat. "Soon as I heard it was _Freak_ that reported it and that Watson's home was involved, I expected to see the full gang here." She peered at the bundle in Molly's arms curiously. "That the Watson kid, then?"

Molly nodded tensely, adjusting Eleanor in her grip. The baby was beginning to wriggle, perhaps sensing that she was being held in inexperienced arms.

"Where's its parents then?" Sally asked, and then shook her head wearily. "Nah, don't tell me. Soon as I saw _him_ run past, I knew Watson would be with him. He's always dragging him into something or other." She shook her head, sagely. "Someone should tell him his little sidekick's a dad now and can't just run off after him all the time."

Molly opened her mouth to correct this grossly unfair assumption when Sally asked, "What about the mum then? Surely _she _must have a bit more sense? Though if she married Watson, maybe not…"

She was saved the bother of replying by the sudden appearance of Sherlock striding back up the road, Mary by his side. He stopped by the advancing bomb disposal experts and she saw him waving his right hand vigorously, evidently describing the location and type. At one point, he shook his head vigorously, seeming agitated. She looked past him in vain for John's familiar figure and her heart sank.

Mary had stopped with him and when they moved forward again, she could see why. Sherlock was holding her arm in an iron grip, the knuckles of his left hand showing white. The blond woman's usually pale face was red with fury or some other emotion.

Sherlock squeezed through the police cordon, his eyes flickering over the crowd briefly before they took in Molly standing by herself; Sally had walked off again. He steered Mary towards her, not loosening his grip until they reached Molly.

Mary pulled her arm away as soon as he let go, glaring up at him. "What the _hell_ was that about?"

"What did you _expect _me to do?" he snapped. "Leave you there? I had no choice – they were waiting for me to tell them where to look." He turned away from them and looked back up the street, his back stiff and forbidding.

"Why didn't you look for him?"

"I _told_ you – I had no choice." His voice was hard.

Mary paused, her breath coming fast. She clenched and unclenched her fists, and Molly had the impression that she was struggling to control herself. "I can look after myself." Her voice was tight, quiet. Molly had the uneasy impression that she was intruding upon a private conversation. "I thought we had an agreement."

He gave a quick impatient glance over his shoulder. "He wasn't _there_, Mary. He'll have gone over the wall at the back to get clear of any blast as quickly as possible. He knows _exactly_ what to do in these situations."

Molly sensed that he didn't entirely believe his own explanation; his voice faltered at the end of the final sentence. His back was still turned to them, but his posture was tense and he bounced lightly on the soles of his feet, as if prepared for sudden action.

"Here. Take Ellie." Molly nudged Mary to get her attention.

Mary started and then stared at the baby with an odd expression on her face. If Molly didn't know better, she would have said that it was almost _resentment_…but that wasn't possible – surely? Then the expression disappeared and Mary was once more the doting mother as she took Ellie carefully from Molly. The baby had awoken and started to fret a little; Mary tucked her more easily against her shoulder and gazed up the street, her face white and set.

Molly stepped quietly towards Sherlock and stood next to him, following his gaze.

"They're not going to make it."

He spoke so quietly, she wasn't sure she'd heard him right. "What?"

"The bomb. Looking at it, I think it's primed to go off as soon as they try to disconnect it. They need to detonate it in a controlled explosion, but it's too large. They can't manage it."

She folded her arms to try to stop her hands from shaking. "Do they _know_?"

"Yes." His head snapped around, looking at the crowd as if something had suddenly occurred to him. "They need to get these people further back – _now_. Where's Sally gone now?"

She nodded towards the DS. "I think she's trying."

"Not hard enough. We need Greg." He turned away, pushing through the crowd…

…And at the same moment, Molly turned, opened her mouth to say something…and suddenly the sky turned brilliant white...

She felt herself lifted bodily and thrown through the air… There was a roaring in her ears that didn't diminish as she slammed into the grounds on her side and then rolled over onto her front, cracking her forehead hard on the concrete.

She lay still, unable to move or to open her eyes, only aware of a searing pain in her left arm and a painful throb in her head. The roaring seemed to increase in both pitch and volume…until she became aware that it was screaming that she could hear.

She turned her head slightly to the left and risked opening her gritty eyes. There was a policeman lying quite near her, his face chalk white. Recognising the pallor of instant death, she lifted her head slightly to see the large piece of glass that had sliced through most of his neck.

She rolled over and sat up groggily, clenching her teeth against the pain in her arm. The screams seemed to be louder now, as if more people were gradually coming back to their senses and reacting to a state of either panic or pain. She looked down at her arm – a long laceration from flying glass, nasty but it hadn't gone through an artery at least.

She stared a little dully at the bodies lying around her and the dust rising from the debris, before her rudimentary medical training began to kick in. She could see some members of the emergency services getting to their feet and attempting to triage the people immediately around them. She pushed herself onto her feet, a little shakily and bent over the dead policeman, carefully closing his eyelids. She had a horribly sick feeling that she might quite easily have been the one lying there, and that this unknown man had unknowingly taken most of the force and the debris for her…

_Sherlock_! She straightened up, looking around in a sudden panic for that distinctive dark coat. He'd been heading off in Sally's direction when it had gone off…

With a sense of relief so strong it made her feel dizzy, she saw him getting to his feet, pulling an elderly woman up as he did so. Both he and the woman seemed only mildly injured, but then the crowd around them had been denser. Even so, she stared at him, trying to spot any injury in the stiff way that he manoeuvred around the bodies on the ground as he led the woman to safety.

He passed the woman over to a paramedic and turned towards Molly, his face even more pale than usual and his eyes seeking her out urgently. When he saw her, she noticed the way his eyes took her in, lingering briefly on the bloody arm, before passing to the dead constable lying at her feet. She saw by the way his lips compressed slightly that he knew perfectly well how close she had come to death…

Mary! She tore her eyes reluctantly from Sherlock and turned in the direction of the shop doorway that she had originally made for. She saw now that she had made a good decision; Mary was crouching in it, clutching Eleanor protectively to her chest. Both seemed relatively unharmed, although the baby was screaming her head off, her chubby little arms flailing. _Punctured ear drums_, Molly thought to herself as she limped over to them, her limbs reluctant to move.

"Mary." She croaked the name in a faint voice that didn't sound like hers. Or maybe it was her own ears, temporarily deafened by the concussion from the explosion? She glanced up the street; beyond the overturned and shattered police cars, she could see nothing but smoke pouring out.

"Mary." She spoke again more clearly, crouching awkwardly in front of her. "Are you hurt?"

Mary's eyes were open, but gazing at nothing as she rhythmically swayed back and forth, clutching her screaming infant tightly. She didn't seem to be injured, as far as Molly could see, although there were small pieces of glass from the shattered shop door in her hair and on Ellie's blanket.

"Mary," she repeated once more, wincing as she touched her own forehead lightly, her fingers coming away sticky with blood.

Mary muttered something that she didn't hear.

"What…?"

Mary repeated her words louder, her blue eyes still focused on something that Molly couldn't see.

"He was _there_…when it went off... I _know_ it." A single tear rolled down her cheek, which she made no effort to wipe away.

She didn't have to say anything else. Molly, rising to her feet again, stared at the smoke-filled street; her stomach turning to ice. She glanced over at Sherlock, and saw that he was focused on the same scene; his face utterly blank while his eyes searched endlessly for any sign of hope. Even though they _both_ knew – could _see_ – that no one who had still been in the street could possibly have survived that blast.

Meanwhile, the little girl with John's blue eyes and with John's kind smile continued to wail.


	29. Chapter 29

**Usual disclaimers apply - not mine, no money. Thanks for the lovely reviews, including those from guests who I can't reply to personally.**

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**Chapter 29**

Time took on an indistinct quality. Molly stood numb as the emergency personnel swarmed about her, carrying away the dead and tending to the injured. She didn't know why she didn't move away – why she wasn't physically _able_ to move away – unless it was because of Mary, who also refused to leave. She felt an odd responsibility to Mary. Had years passed since Sherlock had told her to look after Mary? It felt like it, and yet his voice on that day sounded very clear in her ear, even now. He had seemed certain that Mary might need her support at some point.

He couldn't have predicted _this_, though.

She looked over at him. He was standing motionless, staring at the devastated street and apparently unaware of the hive of activity going on all around him. More and more ambulances arrived, their shrieking sirens adding to the cries of distress from the wounded and bereaved people. Sherlock had certainly been right about the scale of devastation likely to be caused by the bomb. Molly saw a member of the bomb disposal squad sitting on the ramp of an ambulance with his head in his hands, and thought briefly of the experts that she had seen walking down that street. She assumed that most of his colleagues had been killed, and fervently prayed that they hadn't known too much about it.

Whoever had planted the bomb beneath John and Mary's flat certainly hadn't expected the residents to survive…which begged the question: how had Sherlock known? Presumably John – or Mary? – had been the intended target… In which case, had Sherlock _deliberately_ been given a clue and enough time to get them clear? Was this some kind of brutal warning?

But now was not the time to get any answers. While a paramedic assessed her arm and the graze on her forehead, she kept her eyes on Mary, who was stubbornly refusing to take Ellie to hospital. The woman was chalk-white, her eyes distant, and yet she seemed frighteningly calm in the circumstances. Molly would have felt easier in her own mind if Mary had broken down in hysterics instead of arguing energetically with a paramedic. It would have seemed more natural.

To be fair, the baby seemed much calmer, so it was most likely that it had just been the loud noise that had distressed her. There was a chance that her eardrums had burst, but Mary had fortuitously covered her head with a blanket just before the explosion, which would have absorbed the worst of the concussion. And, as Mary was strongly pointing out, if she _did _go to hospital, she'd probably spend hours waiting to be assessed while the more serious cases were wheeled through.

Molly tended to agree. Her paramedic had dabbed some antiseptic on her forehead and wrapped her arm in a loose temporary dressing. He frowned when she refused to go to hospital but seemed mollified when she pointed out that she could always go into work and get a medical colleague from Pathology to put some stitches in the cut. She suspected that he saw little point in arguing, especially as there were plenty of serious cases, to say nothing of the walking-wounded who _did_ want to be admitted to A&amp;E, so the services would be struggling to cope as it was.

After signing an emergency treatment form, she wandered back over to Mary. The diminutive blonde woman was staring towards the smoke-filled ruins that had started to emerge as the dust cleared. Molly watched her carefully, trying to work out whether this unnatural quietness was the prelude to a major breakdown. After her initial tears, Mary had got up, had carefully shaken the glass and other debris off herself and Eleanor, and had gathered together her remaining belongings. Pretty much everything in her home must have been destroyed…but of course that didn't matter compared with…

Molly closed her eyes tightly, but it was no good. Visions swam before her eyes. She could see him, John – tanned and golden and carefree, with his bright blue eyes, back before the Fall, when life was simple, leaning against the laboratory wall, laughing loudly at something Sherlock had just said. She could _see_ him looking at her with that quirky little smile – that "us against him" smile that he so often shared with her. Back before Sherlock's fall sent him grey overnight.

And then, against her will, she remembered that time when he seemed to read her thoughts and that unbearably kind, tender expression in his eyes… The one that she'd later recognised as pity.

She felt hot tears springing into her eyes and repressed them savagely, blinking rapidly as she gritted her teeth. She _couldn't_ break down – not _now_, not while Mary and little Eleanor needed her to be strong… But it wasn't _fair_! Of all people, why did it have to be John?

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she put a tentative finger out to stroke little Ellie's soft cheek. "Um…I guess it was very quick. I mean, I don't suppose he would've known what would happen," she ventured, wincing at the way it sounded.

Mary's eyes narrowed as she stared determinedly ahead, not looking at Molly. Her jaw was set. "Don't be _stupid_. Of _course_ he knew what would happen. He was trying to be a hero. He _always_ had to be the bloody hero." She spat the last sentence out bitterly.

Molly was silent, unsure of what to say. She sensed that the usual well-meaning platitudes would fall on deaf ears; Mary was past all that if she'd _ever_ been in the mood to hear them. No – this went deeper. There was something going on here – something between Mary and John and quite possibly involving Sherlock that she was not privy to. There was something…_hard_ and unyielding about Mary at this moment. Molly was a little scared of her.

Eventually, the woman next to her sighed and shifted a little. "I don't _blame_ Sherlock, if that's what you're thinking. People assume that he always led John into danger…but they were _wrong_. He _craved_ it – the danger, the adrenaline. He – he _lived _for it."

Molly, noting the past tense, opened her mouth to point out that they didn't yet know for certain that John had died…and then closed it again. What would be the point? Mary was almost certainly only accepting the inevitable.

She slipped away to Sherlock a little guiltily. However, Mary didn't seem to notice her leaving.

Sherlock spared her a quick glance as she appeared by his side. "You should get that arm treated properly. There may be glass fragments."

She gave a vague shrug; what did it matter? "Mike can look at it later."

He seemed to accept this, refocusing his sharp gaze on the street. He seemed oddly calm for a man who had probably just lost his best friend.

"Mary says that John is dead," she ventured, cautiously.

"I know," he replied, icily calm. "But she's wrong. He's very much alive." His composed exterior was revealed to be a mask when his hand sought her uninjured arm and clasped it around the wrist, gripping so fiercely that she nearly cried out. Her heart was thumping hard in her ears, and she wondered, not for the first time, whether Sherlock really _had_ gone mad at last.

"How can you _possibly_ say that?" she burst out, almost sobbing in her frustration. "For _God's sake_, Sherlock! The blast -."

"He was nowhere near the bomb when _I_ saw it," Sherlock interrupted, almost fiercely. His hand loosened on her wrist but moved to clasp her hand tightly instead; she wasn't sure whether the firm grasp was intended to steady her nerves or his own. "It was easy to find, so he would have spotted it if he'd gone into the back garden – which he _did_, because he knew his neighbour was at home. Because she's deafer than she likes to admit, he guessed that she was probably in the back garden feeding her interminable cats and hadn't heard him knocking. He knew the blast was imminent and that it would be big – he's no expert on them, but he knows enough about that type of device. He probably knew he didn't have time to _both_ retrieve his neighbour _and_ get clear of the street, so after he found her, he removed them to the nearest position of safety he knew of." He turned to her, gripping her fingers hard. "He's _alive_, Molly! I _know_ he is."

His face was white, his eyes red-rimmed, and even though he was looking at her, he didn't seem to be seeing her very clearly. Close to, she could see that he hadn't escaped the explosion entirely Scot-free; there was a gash in his cheek and a more alarming bruise forming high on his forehead, just at the hairline. She automatically reached up with her spare hand to grip his chin, trying to assess the damage, but her hand was trembling so much that she let it fall again. His eyes were as keen as ever, flickering in that manic way she associated with his mind palace. He didn't seem concussed – or at least, temporary madness wasn't _usually_ a sign of concussion as far as she knew…and he _must_ be mad if he really believed his friend had survived. John would never have been able to drag an elderly person far enough away to escape the blast in time. Even Sherlock and Mary had barely made it out before the bomb went off.

As if he sensed her disbelief, he pulled away from her and turned back to the street as he continued talking. "The question is _where did he go_? _Where_ in the immediate neighbourhood would be able to withstand an explosion of that magnitude? And the answer, I think, lies in the reason why he insisted on renting a flat above a particularly disagreeable woman who openly professes a dislike of infants. Why live _there_ when he could easily afford something better and more child-friendly?"

"Why indeed?" said a familiar voice.

Molly looked around, somehow not even _remotely _surprised to see Mycroft standing there. He looked as meticulously turned out as ever, but the usual arrogant expression was missing. She sensed a fresh tension in Sherlock's body, but he didn't let go of her hand or give the impatient sigh that Mycroft's sudden appearances usually elicited. And when his brother moved up to stand next to him, the two of them focused their attention on the remains of John and Mary's flat rather than upon one another. They looked strangely alike, with matching expressions of serious preoccupation.

"There's an unused bomb shelter located behind those houses," Mycroft said quietly. His younger brother nodded in agreement. "Do you suppose John knew of its existence?"

"I think it highly likely," Sherlock murmured. He turned his head toward Mycroft, running his eyes over his brother's immaculate suit before giving him a brief grin. "Care to go and investigate?"

He turned to Molly, his eyes focusing properly on her face for the first time since the bomb had gone off. She didn't know what he saw in her expression, but his face softened and he leaned down, kissing the right side of her forehead very carefully – she didn't know why that spot until she remembered that a bandage swathed the left side. His lips moved quickly to her cheek and then he murmured "Bring Mary" in her ear before letting go of her hand and striding through the gap between two overturned police cars.

Mycroft gave a delicate sniff and looked at the dusty rubble without enthusiasm, but followed his brother without complaint. She noticed that two men dressed in khaki and passing as ordinary soldiers quickly followed their employer.

Molly stared after them for a moment…and then swore loudly and marched over to Mary and Eleanor.

"Come with me." She grabbed the other woman's elbow, pulling her firmly towards the street.

Mary hesitated, her already white face turning paler. "I don't want to – to see…"

"No – come on! Sherlock's onto something. John might be – look, just _come on_."

She pulled Mary towards the smoking rubble, and then hesitated, glancing at the baby.

"I can't take Ellie in _there,_" Mary pointed out, looking at the clouds of dust.

After a moment's thought, Molly looked around at the paramedic who had been assessing Mary and the baby a few minutes before. She was now busy with another patient, so Molly looked beyond the line of ambulances. She noted a dust-covered and agitated-looking Sally Donovan and considered her for a moment before shaking her head. She looked even further…and spotted the front of a black car protruding from the next street along.

"A_ha_," she murmured, a wicked smile playing on her lips. "I _think_ I have the answer."

Sure enough, Mycroft's erstwhile assistant Anthea was sitting in the back of the car, busy with her smartphone as usual. She looked up at the two women enquiringly. Molly fancied the woman's calm expression faltered just a fraction at their dusty, bloodied appearance.

Molly gave her a brilliant smile. "Mr Holmes asked us to accompany him into the bomb site and as we can't possibly take the baby in there, I'm sure he won't mind if we leave her with you," she said, sweetly. After all, Anthea didn't need to know _which_ 'Mr Holmes' had made the request. "Mary, this is Mycroft's personal assistant Anthea, so Ellie couldn't be in safer hands. Anthea, this is Mary Watson - and _this_ is Eleanor, who won't give you any trouble, I'm sure."

She stood back and watched as Mary passed Ellie and her changing bag over to the stunned woman, issuing some quick instructions with regard to changing equipment and infant formula. Anthea dropped her phone on the floor of the car as she accepted her new charge in a flustered manner. Molly was fairly sure the woman hadn't come into contact with all that many babies in the past. Looking up, she caught the amused eye of the driver in the car window and had to hide her grin.

"You _do _trust her, I take it," Mary asked, dubiously, as they hurried back down the road.

"Oh, absolutely. Ellie couldn't be in a more secure location. Besides which," she added, reflectively, "I'm sure the driver will help out if she's clueless. He had the look of a dad about him – forty-something and wearing a wedding ring."

For some reason, the police officers guarding the bomb site hadn't attempted to stop the Holmes' brothers entering the street. However, they certainly weren't prepared to ignore the two women hurrying up to them. Molly surprised herself by firmly brushing them aside and dragging a reluctant Mary through the cordon. When one of the officers looked as if he might intervene, she mentioned Mycroft and noted with satisfaction that a simple name really _could_ make a grown man quail and step back.

"What is all this _about_?" Mary asked. "What does Sherlock want us there for? I'm not sure I want to see where -," she swallowed, clearly trying to maintain her calm. It occurred to Molly suddenly that Mary might be suffering from delayed shock, which might explain her icy calm in the face of possible bereavement.

"Look, I don't know if I should tell you this, but…Sherlock thinks John is still alive. And, what's more, Mycroft agrees with him," she said cautiously, as they picked their way through the smoke and dust and rubble. Many of the houses were only half collapsed and the mortar rumbled alarmingly as they prudently took a route along the very centre of the street.

Mary stopped dead, an expression of shock warring with fragile hope on her face. "He…he's just hoping for the best…" she ventured, but as she moved forward again, her pace picked up speed.

"He mentioned an old bomb shelter – he thought John must have known about it… How are we going to get through _this_?"

Halfway up the street, the piles of rubble that they were stumbling over were replaced by larger columns of brick and cement. The entirety of John and Mary's building and a few houses on either side had collapsed, the walls and shattered pieces of furniture lying haphazardly in large heaps across the street.

"Here – come on, _quick_." Mary stepped up onto the first pile of bricks with surprising agility and grabbed Molly's hand to pull her up. Molly looked down at the debris nervously; it was by no means certain it wouldn't collapse further under their weight. However, since Sherlock and Mycroft must have passed this way…

She followed Mary, marvelling at the other woman's light-footedness. Mary seemed to know exactly where it would safe to step. She paused from time to time, feeling her way with her feet before putting her full weight down. Molly, conscious of being bigger and heavier than Mary, tried to follow in her footsteps as much as possible.

Mary helped her over a couple of tricky sections but eventually her impatience seemed to get the better of her, and she hurried on ahead, leaving Molly to pick her cautious way alone. By the time she had scrambled over the pile of bricks that marked the former entrance into John and Mary's back garden, Mary was standing with Sherlock and Mycroft, the three of them looking at a point beyond where the back fence had lain.

There were a number of khaki-clad men investigating the site of the explosion, and one of them came over and helped Molly clamber down into the back garden. He didn't seem surprised to see her, and she realised that he and his colleagues were probably Mycroft's men.

The garden was a sorry mess of piled-up soil and rubble with a massive hole near where the back door had been. No wall stood here, but there was a teetering wall still standing at the house next door, and the operative gave it a wary look and advised her to keep her distance from that side as he helped her cross the site to the others.

There was a section of rough ground running behind the fence at the back of John and Mary's garden, at least the width of a football pitch. The houses had been solidly late Victorian with very large gardens, but at some point a developer must have purchased at least the back half of each garden, presumably with an intention to develop in the street behind. However, since that street possessed an old-fashioned primary school and a long-closed Victorian-era red-brick Methodist chapel which happened to be listed, the development had never happened, which was perhaps just as well. The rough ground was strewn with rubble and glass, but the solid brick buildings beyond seemed unaffected, and luckily there wouldn't have been anyone at the school on a Sunday.

As she joined the other three, Sherlock was looking intently at a piece of land that looked basically the same as any other to Molly. Mary kept glancing anxiously between his face and the land, while Mycroft beckoned a few of his men over with an imperious manner. They began to clear the rubble and splintered bits of fence to one side, clearing a way through.

"Wait!" Sherlock ordered, holding up his hand. He stepped through the gap, treading carefully, the shattered shards of window glass crunching under his shoes. They all watched as he walked back and forth across a small area, peering at the ground. Eventually, he turned to Mycroft.

"Do you have the plans?"

"Not to hand, unfortunately," Mycroft replied softly, his narrowed eyes focused on the land under Sherlock's feet. "I looked at them, of course, when I heard that John had moved in. If I had known they would be significant…but I was already on route when the device exploded. I would say you are on the right track, however."

Sherlock nodded tensely and continued to stare at the ground under his feet as he moved forward again very slowly. Molly noticed that he was focusing his efforts on a very small patch of land.

"Look – what _is_ this?" Mary broke in. "Where's John? Molly said something about a bomb shelter…"

"Yes." Mycroft didn't look at her, still focusing on his brother's careful movements. "It was of interest to me to learn that John had moved into this house, because it belonged to a predecessor of mine before it was turned into flats. He moved here in the 1950s, before that portion of land was sold off, naturally. In his back garden, he built a shelter capable of withstanding a nuclear bomb – at that time, of course, although it wouldn't be sufficient shelter against a modern missile. It was maintained for many years as a private shelter, but fell into disrepair in the 1980s. It was never on the property's _official_ plans, and after the owner died, the new owners were unaware of its existence."

"But _John_ knew about it?" Molly managed to gasp out, her heart beating faster.

Mycroft paused. "I believe John has always had a casual interest in Cold War history, and in the topic of civilian preparedness during the Cold War in particular. However, I have no idea how he would have seen the plans of a private shelter when, as far as I know, my office is the only one who holds the blueprint…"

He let the comment die away meaningfully. Sherlock merely grunted as he continued to pace slowly. His face was strained, and Molly was pretty sure she knew why. The shelter, if it was still accessible, had fallen into disrepair…which meant that there was probably limited ventilation. And the ground was covered in rubble…

"Oh _God_, John – where _are_ you?" Mary said, desperately, and Molly put a shaking hand on her shoulder in mute comfort.

Even as she did so, she saw Sherlock falter slightly and step back again. He stepped forward and back a couple of times, kicking away the bricks as he did so. Mycroft tensed and leaned forward slightly, his hands gripping his umbrella, as his brother crouched and pushed brushed the soil away with a leather gloved hand. He began to bang at the ground, listening intently.

"Here! It's hollow!" He beckoned to Mycroft's men and they immediately stepped forward and began to clear the patch of ground with shovels.

Mary made as if to step forward but, much to Molly's astonishment, it was Mycroft who stopped her with a firm hand on her arm. "Wait here Mary, please," he said, in an amazingly gentle voice for Mycroft. "They need to step carefully in case the shelter collapses."

Mary complied, but Molly could feel her trembling with suppressed emotion. She squeezed her shoulder comfortingly as she watched Sherlock. He was directing the team with manic energy once more.

"Will he be…?" Mary asked, falteringly.

"I believe he will." Mycroft's voice was as calm and emotionless as ever, but Molly, seeing the tension leaving Sherlock's expression, believed him.

It could only have taken a few minutes, but it felt like hours before Sherlock bent down to clear the edges of a sunken trapdoor. One of the men hooked the handle of his shovel through the hook and pulled the trapdoor back.

Sherlock crouched down and leaned into the hole. "John! John, are you alright?"

"_John_!" Mary pulled away from Mycroft's restraining hand and ran forward to join Sherlock. Molly followed her, kneeling in the dirt to peer over the edge. She could see a dark sandbagged hole roughly ten foot deep, with an iron ladder running down into it.

"_Mary_! Are you alright? Sherlock? I'm here. Just a minute." The voice echoed faintly.

Molly gasped at the voice she hadn't expected to hear ever again and clutched at Mary's arm. It was just as well, as the other woman swayed slightly, as if she might either collapse or jump down into the hole. "John! _John_! Where are you?"

"Here." John's face appeared at the bottom of the hole, and Molly realised that he must be standing in a passage leading to the underground room that Mycroft's predecessor had built to withstand attack. "I've got Mrs Haynes back here – she's a little stressed but OK." His expression changed as he looked up at them. "Ellie…?"

"Is fine," Molly supplied quickly.

"Good." John looked at Mycroft. "Could you send a couple of your blokes down here to give me a hand with Mrs H.? Only, she's a bit on the heavy side and getting her down here was tough enough. Not sure my back's up to the return journey…"

"I _heard_ that…!" countered an elderly but strident female voice.

"Not _all_ that deaf, then," Sherlock murmured, and grinned madly at Molly.

She suddenly sagged, her clenched fists sinking into the dirt, as she laughed, tears of sheer relief running down her cheeks.


	30. Chapter 30

**Hi everyone! Once more I am SO sorry that updates are so delayed. I have a genuine excuse this time - my laptop went seriously loopy, but I'm now back in action with a new one - although I cannot get to grips with Windows 8, I'm such a dinosaur! Also, my apologies if you've reviewed or messaged and I haven't got back; once I was back online there were loads of messages and I haven't got through them all. Thank you if you're reviewed! Usual disclaimers apply.  
**

* * *

**Chapter 30**

Sherlock had followed the two men from Mycroft's team down into the shelter, taking the ladder rungs two at a time as he swung himself down.

Molly was distracted from this sight when Mary gave an odd gasp and then sagged against her heavily. She had to grab the woman quickly, to stop her tumbling into the hole. Mary might be pint-sized, but she was a dead weight at this moment, and Molly struggled to keep her balance. Pain flared through her injured arm, making her inhale sharply.

It was Mycroft who intervened, efficiently taking Mary's weight off Molly by putting his gloved hands under the unconscious woman's arms and pulling her back. "Medics please. Mrs Watson would appear to have fainted under the strain."

Two of the 'soldiers' hurried over and relieved him of his burden, lying Mary down on a relatively flat piece of ground and raising her legs. Molly leaned over the hole. "John! Come up here, quick!"

"Coming." John climbed up the ladder. As his face drew level with hers, he paused, his eyes taking in her bandaged arm and head. "Pretty grim, eh?"

She nodded, not trusting her voice for a moment.

He nodded. "Thought so. When I saw the size of that bomb… We heard the explosion, of course. Mrs H. was hysterical and I couldn't leave her to try to get out, and anyway I guessed that the entrance had been covered. I just had to hope that Sherlock would remember -."

He broke off as he spotted his wife's prone body and continued climbing out. Below him, Mycroft's men were carefully manoeuvring Mrs Haynes through the tunnel and encouraging her to climb the ladder. As John cleared the ladder, two more soldiers leaned down and grabbed the nervous old lady's arms to pull her up. Molly noted that although John had described her as "a bit on the heavy side", she was actually quite small and skinny. She recalled that this was typical of John, using light humour to jolly someone along, and wondered if he often used the same technique on nervous patients.

"_John_!" Mary was sitting up, having been briskly revived by Mycroft's 'medics'. At the sight of him, she scrambled to her feet and threw herself at him. He stumbled back a little before flinging his arms around her, holding her tightly. She sobbed into his shoulder. "_Damn_ you, don't you _ever_ do this to me again!"

"It's OK, everything's fine," he soothed her, running his hands up and down her back. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

Molly turned away quickly to give them some privacy and saw Mycroft peering into the shelter with interest. He looked up and raised an eyebrow at her.

"Well, I really can't forego the opportunity. Despite apparent evidence to the contrary, I've never actually been in one. Shall we?"

Molly hesitated. She'd never been keen on enclosed spaces, and the thought of being buried down there horrified her. What if there was another explosion or an unstable building fell down on them? She could fully understand the hysteria of elderly Mrs Haynes, now being carried away on a stretcher to be assessed although she seemed relatively unharmed. However, Sherlock hadn't reappeared, which suggested that the shelter had fascinated him.

Mycroft carefully propped his umbrella against a slab of concrete, succeeded in crouching down without muddying his trousers and descended the ladder with a brisk efficiency that surprised her.

Swallowing nervously, she followed him. It was more difficult than she expected; she had briefly forgotten about the gash on her arm, but she had pulled it when catching Mary and it now stung painfully as she climbed down. Her head was beginning to throb and she wondered whether she wasn't a little concussed after all. She desperately wanted to sink into her sofa with a nice hot cup of tea.

The ladder descended at least ten feet into the perfectly round hole, roughly four feet in diameter. She realised that the walls must be constructed from concrete, although the area was so dark and the walls packed so tightly with stacked sandbags, it was hard to tell for certain. She stepped off the ladder and followed Mycroft along a short narrow tunnel which opened out into a dimly lit room. It was roughly twelve feet by twenty feet, she noted, a little shocked that the flickering ceiling light was actually working. Presumably, it was operated by some kind of battery that had never been removed, but it was extraordinary that it hadn't degraded in all these years.

Into this compact space was squeezed a two tier metal bunk bed with military-style rolled up mattresses and a square metal table with two chairs. Shelves lined three of the four walls and were filled with tinned food, boxes which looked to contain folded clothes and blankets, and stacked books. The fourth wall was dominated by a large empty water tank. Near it stood a rather lethal-looking camping stove, some crates of kitchen utensils and a small archway which led, she presumed, into some kind of bathroom.

Sherlock was currently looking closely at a book that he had presumably taken from a shelf of dusty hardback volumes and seemed unsurprised to see them.

Mycroft peered around him in fascination. "Most interesting. I had examined the blueprints of this one, of course."

His brother raised an eyebrow as he pushed the volume back on the shelf. "And here was I assuming you would be intimately familiar with this type of structure, having already had a room booked in the well-provisioned government shelter of your choice should the unthinkable happen. Or would it be the Royal Yacht for you? Somewhere safe in the North Atlantic?"

Mycroft gave him a bland look, but Molly had the impression that he was annoyed. "Hardly, brother dear."

She shivered. "It gives me the creeps. It's like a moment frozen in time. All these things, never used. And to imagine this man and his wife, stuck down here all alone…for months perhaps, or even years."

Sherlock glanced at her. "If it makes you feel any better, they would have lasted less than one second, if a bomb _had_ been dropped here, as it no doubt would have been." He looked around and shrugged. "The heat from the explosion would've sucked all the oxygen from the space, if the blast hadn't already melted them into the concrete floor. It's a myth that one can survive directly underneath the blast from a ground strike. In fact, the impact would -."

"Yes, _thank you_ for that – much appreciated, but I don't require any more information." She shivered again. "It's odd that no one else ever found this shelter in all these years."

"I wouldn't say that," Sherlock murmured, and went on to point out several signs of recent activity – books that had been picked up recently, fingerprints on dusty tools, the angle of one of the chairs that had been moved recently but not today, due to markings on the dirty concrete floor, and so on. Molly looked and nodded, marvelling as always at his keen observational skills.

Mycroft seemed less impressed. "John, I imagine. He has been down here on several occasions no doubt, which is why he knew exactly where to go before the bomb exploded. And that will be why he was able to open the trapdoor so easily and usher in a terrified elderly woman." His manner changed abruptly, his voice turning icy cold as he contemplated his brother. "Well, Sherlock. I hope you've _finally_ learnt your lesson. Isn't it time you accepted the fact that I'm right on this occasion and that this really _is _Moriarty?"

Sherlock returned to examining the books with apparent interest. "I'm prepared to admit that I was wrong about Adler."

"And not for the first time where _she_ is concerned," Mycroft countered, sharply. "Why are you so convinced that Moriarty is dead? He's fooled us before, so -."

"I don't need to explain my reasoning to you." Sherlock's voice was tight, and Molly could tell by the set of his shoulders that he was getting angry.

Mycroft pressed his lips into a thin line. "This is not one of your games any more, Sherlock – if indeed it ever was. Innocent people have died here today."

Sherlock spun around to face his brother, an ugly sneer on his face. "And as if that ever bothered _you_. We're simply pawns in your game, aren't we? _Expendable_, every last one of us."

Mycroft's face went even paler if that were possible. After a measured pause, he continued, his voice eerily calm. "It's time you grew up, little brother. Your poor attempt at an insult is merely a cover for the fact that you hate being proved wrong."

"Really? As if I would -."

Molly clenched her fists, feeling a fresh stab of pain in her injured arm, and yelled "_Shut up_!"

Surprisingly, it worked. The brothers both stopped instantly and stared at her in amazement.

Molly took a deep breath. "_Thank_ you. Can we _not_ turn this into the usual slanging match between the two of you? _Sherlock_ – Mycroft is right. Innocent people have died. _Mycroft_ – I don't believe Sherlock _really_ thinks it's a game, and if he thought there was _any_ possibility that Jim was still alive, he wouldn't rest until he found him. _Both of you_ – you're behaving like spoilt kids and I'm _sick_ of it."

Her vision blurred for a moment and her arm continued to throb in time with her heart. She swayed slightly.

Instantly, Sherlock was there in front of her, his hands on her shoulders, frowning at her forehead. "It could be concussion," he muttered to Mycroft, peering at her eyes. "You should have got one of your people to take her to hospital. And there's probably glass in this arm."

"_What_?" Molly stared at him in disbelief. "_No_! _Don't_ try passing this off as a head injury! All I really need is a sit down." She took a deep breath to steady herself and batted his hands away, ignoring the chair that Mycroft had drawn out for her. "I'm _serious_. And I don't want to be kept in the dark any more. If you have some information, Sherlock – or you, Mycroft, for that matter – I think you should share it. I'm sick to death of all the secrets. Do you understand? I'm not impressed!"

"You're not the only one who feels that way."

Both brothers jumped at the new voice as John stepped into the room, his face grim.

"Is Mary alright?"

He looked towards Molly, appreciating the question. "She's OK now, thanks. Gone back to Ellie." He quirked an eyebrow at her. "I gather you left her with Anthea?"

"Did you really?" Mycroft looked genuinely intrigued by this fresh information.

John's mouth twitched with amusement, but he folded his arms military-style and gave each brother a hard look. "We _are _going to talk about this, all of us, and you are _not_ going to exclude me for any further investigation, Sherlock. First of all – who was the target? Me? Mary?"

Molly opened her mouth to ask why on earth Mary would be the target of an assassin, but then closed it again. It had become clear that there was much more to Mrs. Watson than met the eye.

"Secondly," John continued, "how did you know in time? Did you get some kind of warning?"

For answer, Sherlock produced his mobile and opened a text message, then handed it to John. Molly peered over his shoulder to look at the message. The contact number had been withheld and the message was simply a number:

**66110508**

John handed the phone back to him. "A cypher, I assume? What does it mean?"

Sherlock pocketed the phone. "I received it this morning. I worked out that the numbers are intended to be interpreted in blocks of two – so, sixty-six, eleven, five and eight. It didn't take me long to work out which book they referred to. Ironically, there's a copy of it here."

He walked over to the bookshelf and retrieved the dusty volume that he had been looking at when Molly and Mycroft had entered the shelter. As he displayed it to them, Molly saw that it was a copy of the King James Bible.

"How did you know so quickly that it was the Bible?" she asked.

Sherlock gave a thin smile. "The message was delivered with a short music clip taken from a piece by Eric Coates called _By the Sleepy Lagoon_. You probably know it better as the opening theme tune to the Radio 4 show Desert Island Discs."

"And you _knew_ that?" John asked in a tone of disbelief.

Sherlock gave him an annoyed look; his poor recall of popular culture was a long-standing joke and cause of irritation. "Not precisely. But, unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately in this case), Mummy was obsessed with that programme when we were younger and I also remember Mycroft stumbling through the tune in a distressingly incompetent manner during his mercifully brief piano lessons." He threw his brother a quick smirk. "I recognised the tune and it was clear that it was supposed to be significant, so I looked up its use. What are the two items of literature that the 'castaways' on that programme are always allowed to keep?"

"The complete works of Shakespeare and the bible," Molly supplied, quickly. She suspected John had never listened to the programme and Mycroft was looking equally perplexed.

Sherlock nodded. "Quite. So that narrowed down my search considerably. After checking and discarding Shakespeare, I checked the sixty-sixth book of the bible, which was Revelations, and looked at the eleventh chapter and the fifth verse of that chapter."

He had been flicking through the copy in his hand and now showed them the relevant verse:

**And if any man will hurt them, fire proceedeth out of their mouth, and devoureth their enemies: and if any man will hurt them, he must in this manner be killed.**

"The eighth word is 'fire', so that was the significant point of the verse. A fire – or explosion of some description – would happen, and it was a revenge attack." Sherlock looked at Mycroft, for once utterly serious. "Someone wants to get revenge on me for the fact that Moriarty died that day, while I did not. By surviving, I destroyed his plan. I 'hurt' him. And _that_ is why I believe he is dead."

"I see," Mycroft said, slowly. "You mean that you think this attack was intended to be fatal…despite the warning."

Sherlock nodded. "Yesterday, once I realized that Irene Adler was not the instigator, I was beginning to think that I'd made a massive miscalculation. If Moriarty _were_ still alive, he'd be playing games with me again, and that's what the perpetrator _seemed_ to be doing with that security breach in the West End – basically reminding me of the strength of his reach, just as he did when he infiltrated the Tower, the Bank of England and Pentonville at the same time. But _this_ -," he waved around him, "- this is _different_. This is _revenge_."

He looked at John. "You barely escaped before the blast, and you _wouldn't_ have if Molly hadn't answered her phone and if you hadn't reacted so quickly. I was given a warning, but the would-be assassin didn't intend for me to make it in time. He – whoever _he_ is - _wanted_ me to fail…and to _know_ that I had failed." He shook his head. "That's not Moriarty. That's someone seeking _revenge_ for Moriarty."

There was silence in the shelter at this. Eventually, John broke it with a heavy exhalation - almost of relief, it seemed to Molly.

"So _I_ was definitely the target then? Not anyone else?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, but Molly fancied that Mycroft made a slight movement at this. She glanced at him and caught his eye on her before he refocused his attention on his brother.

"Yes, you _were_ the target. If I had realized earlier that this was to do with Moriarty, while not actually _being_ him, I would have remembered that there were three intended targets on the day I 'fell'. You, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Your lives were spared because I apparently died, but once it became clear that I _hadn't_… well, my punishment would be your deaths. Of course you were the most important of the three targets, which is why you've been targeted first." He shifted, seeming a little embarrassed. "It _might_ have been observed that I work better when you are with me. Remove _you_ and I am immediately weakened…at least, that would be the perception."

"And quite right too." John grinned, suddenly looking years younger to Molly. "Let's face it, how often have you solved a case because of some chance remark I've made, usually about the washing up or something?"

"Just a coincidence," Sherlock muttered.

"Hang on, though," Molly interjected. "Why are you so sure that Moriarty wouldn't take revenge? Surely he'd want John killed if he found out that you'd survived?"

"Two reasons. Firstly, if Moriarty had survived, he would have known that I had also from the moment I started taking down his web. He would have had ample opportunity attack John, Mrs. H. and Lestrade while I was still out of the country and officially dead – it's not as if they were under careful protection at that point. Why would he suddenly decide to attack John four years after the event? This is someone who has only recently gained the opportunity. Secondly…" He paused before going on, frowning slightly. "I don't believe that would be his response. He would want to hold John's safety over my head for a little longer. And if he _had_ wanted John dead then…that's precisely what would have happened."

John's grin faded as he and Sherlock looked at each other. There was a weight of expectant tension between them before the doctor shook his head, firmly. "We're not moving back into Baker Street if that's what you're thinking. It's no kind of environment for a baby, especially not with your experiments and the hours you keep. Although -," he looked towards the ceiling and grimaced, "- judging by the conditions up there, we're going to have to move _somewhere_, at least until the insurance comes through."

"Anthea can arrange temporary accommodation," Mycroft began, but Sherlock shook his head vigorously.

"No, it's better if they come back to Baker Street for a while. I'm assuming that your highly invasive surveillance of 221B is still in place, Mycroft, so it's probably the safest place for Eleanor. And John will be on hand whenever I need his help. Mary can keep an eye on Mrs. Hudson. Come _on_ John," he added as John glared at him. "You know it makes sense, just until we've sorted this out."

"And the Detective Inspector?" Mycroft asked, blandly. "How do you intend to keep _him_ safe? Move him in as well?" He raised a mildly-amused eyebrow at Molly. "It might get a little crowded."

"He's still on sick leave, isn't he? Arrange an unexpected invitation to a rehabilitation programme through his occupational insurance. Send him to that little place you have in Oxford," Sherlock instructed, giving his brother a hard look. "Keep Lestrade out of trouble and increase your surveillance on Mary, Eleanor and Mrs. H., so we can concentrate fully on the investigation."

Molly noted the "we" and judging by the look of fresh determination in John's eyes, so had he.

Mycroft nodded, seeming resigned. "I'll make the arrangements. And what is the focus of your investigation _now_?"

Sherlock frowned, thoughtfully and glanced at the bible in his hands. "Working out precisely _which_ strand of Moriarty's web we missed last time."

[GAP]

Molly was feeling decidedly heavy-legged by the time they emerged from the bomb shelter. A variety of soldiers, bomb disposal experts, scene-of-crime officers, sniffer dogs and Mycroft's 'special' forces were swarming around the bomb site by now, but none of them bothered the small group making its way back up what remained of the street. Mycroft had lingered behind with a couple of his men, giving terse instructions in a quiet voice.

Sherlock seemed distracted and strode on ahead, stepping over the rubble with enviable ease. Molly didn't bother to ask for his help; she could tell by the preoccupied expression on his face that he was quickly sifting through the events of his years away, trying to work out what he had missed. She started to scramble over the rubble by herself, but John, seeing her difficulty, took hold of her hand to guide her.

As they stepped past the police cordon, he stopped her for a moment and examined her loosely bandaged arm critically.

"Not a bad job, but I'd better take a proper look if you're determined not to go to hospital. It'll need cleaning properly and possibly a couple of stitches. And your head too. We'll get Anthea to give us all a lift to the clinic – I have a feeling that Mycroft will have already instructed her to 'escort' us to Baker Street anyway. No arguments, Molly. The pathologists will be run off their feet with all this, so I doubt anyone will have time to look at it for you. And Mary and I have some spare clothes and toiletries at the clinic that we'll need to pick up."

She smiled her thanks. "It's very kind of you, considering all that you've got to sort out. I'm sorry… I suppose I should go into work this afternoon to help them out…"

"Not likely," John spoke over her, firmly. "As a doctor, I'm officially signing you off for a few days. You need _rest_, Molly – and you need someone to wake you up every hour or so tonight, to make sure you're not concussed." He grinned suddenly, giving Sherlock's back a sly look. "Should I be asking _him_ to do that?"

"Um - what?" She stared at him for a moment and then laughed, shakily. "How did you know about – about _us_?"

John rolled his eyes at her. "How blind do you think I am?" He paused before confessing, "Well, actually, although I _did_ have my suspicions, it was Mary who confirmed them. It was the way Sherlock kept looking at you – remember, at Baker Street, that day she went into labour. She said his eyes kept going to your face whenever you weren't looking at him, and there was something in them that she'd never seen before – something soft. It was a _loving_ expression, she said. Almost shocked her out of labour apparently."

Molly snorted with laughter. "I'm just amazed she could even spot something like that while in labour. I'm sure I couldn't."

"Well, she's observant," John said, with a shrug. Although they were now on level ground, he hadn't let go of her hand. They were still following Sherlock, who was approaching the black limousine. Looking further ahead, Molly could see Mary standing by the open door with Eleanor in her arms, watching them.

Sherlock paused and glanced over his shoulder, appearing to be waiting for them. His eyes, more focused now, took in the two of them and lingered briefly on their enjoined hands.

"Hmm, that's a point," John said, pausing before they caught up with Sherlock. "You sure you don't mind us moving into Baker Street? We wouldn't want to get in the way."

"No, no," she reassured him, quickly. "I'm not living there anyway."

"You aren't?" John seemed surprised. "Mary and I thought that was one of the reasons why Sherlock was being so secretive. We assumed that he didn't necessarily want to advertise the fact that you'd moved in together..."

"John," she interrupted quickly in an attempt to distract him; she really didn't want to have to explain the slow burn of her relationship with Sherlock. "Who exactly _is_ Mary? I can't believe she's just a nurse you met at work."

John sobered. "Would you believe me if I told you that I really don't know?"

She examined his face carefully. There was no sign that he was speaking with anything less than complete honesty. "And – and that's OK with you?"

He smiled, very slightly. "Yes. Yes, I've had a lot of time to think about it, believe me. A hell of a lot of time. But, yes, it's all fine."

"Molly! John!"

They smiled at Sherlock's impatient tone. John let go of her hand, turning towards Sherlock and raising his voice. "It's obviously escaped your notice that she's injured – which is why I'm having to help her. You might want to think about that." He gave Molly another quick smile and a wink. "I'll see you at the car."

She nodded and watched as he strode past Sherlock, not acknowledging him as he headed towards his wife and daughter. Sherlock gave him a slightly nonplussed look before walking back to her.

"Yes?" she asked him politely, a smile hovering on her lips. "Was there something you wanted? Only I was under the impression that you'd forgotten I was here."

His stance was typical Sherlock, a little distracted, a little impatient, but knowing him as well as she did, she couldn't miss the slight uncertainty in his expression. Smiling up at him, she added, "I was just joking, of course."

"Of course you were," he repeated with apparent confidence, but his hand came up to cradle the elbow of her injured arm gently. "I was just debating my next move."

"I get it. Don't worry." They turned back towards Mycroft's car. "I'm going with John and Mary to the clinic to get this looked at."

"Good. Then go straight back to Baker Street. Anthea can go to your flat and pick up whatever you need," he instructed firmly, although he looked a little uncertain when she shot him an incredulous look. "What I meant to say is, you're…welcome to stay there. Not that there's any risk of course, but Mrs. Hudson will be pleased to see you – and I'm sure Mary would appreciate the help… And you can use my bedroom – I mean, I won't be using it anyway…"

She hid her smile at his oddly nervous tone. "Thanks, Sherlock, but I'm just so tired, I want to sit down and relax. And Toby…"

"Anthea can feed him or drop him around to your neighbour. I…would rather you were there. _Please_ Molly," he added quietly and it was that little "please" that made her relent.

"Alright, but don't expect me to be able to help Mary much. I just want to swallow some pain killers with a large mug of tea and sleep off my headache."

He seemed to relax slightly. "Mrs. Hudson will make a big fuss of you no doubt -," he began, but his phone beeped suddenly. He pulled it out of his pocket and tensed visibly at the display.

"What is it?"

"Withheld number," he murmured, pausing before opening the message.

She heard the strain of the first couple of bars of that theme tune from Desert Island Discs, sounding almost mockingly chirpy with its inappropriate reminder of a cosy, middle-class Britain. She leaned against Sherlock's arm as they read the text together:

**10112033**

"Who's it aimed at this time?" she asked, darting an anxious glance towards the Watsons. "A second attempt on John's life?"

He paused for a long moment before replying. "No. This will be Lestrade. Mycroft will need to put the security plan in action _immediately_."

She shivered violently as he forwarded the message to his brother, texting one-handed. _Not Greg..._

"I don't know where Greg will be right now. Shouldn't I phone to warn him?" she asked, as Sherlock grabbed her hand and pulled her forward, walking quickly towards the car. The Watsons were already inside with Anthea.

"No, let Mycroft deal with it – he'll be quicker at locating him. He's probably already got Lestrade under covert surveillance. You get this arm sorted out." As they arrived at the car, he raised his arm to hail a cab. "I need to get to the nearest library and check the bible to see what we're dealing with this time – Mycroft will need to know. I'll see you back at Baker Street."

She nodded and went to squeeze in next to Anthea, but he stopped her briefly with a hand on her shoulder.

You'll be fine," he murmured, although in truth she hadn't been giving her own safety a single thought. "You'll be _fine_," he repeated as if reassuring himself before dipping his head to press his lips against her head. "_I promise you_."

The last words were whispered directly into her ear, and then he was gone before she could begin to process the words.


	31. Chapter 31

**Dear all, thanks as always for your lovely reviews! I should warn that the next few chapters (after this one) will take a very dark turn... Usual disclaimers apply.**

* * *

**Chapter 31**

As soon as Sherlock left, Molly felt the last vestiges of her energy desert her. In the car on the way to John's surgery, she leaned her hot cheek against the blessed coolness of the window and let her eyes drift shut. Although it was only early afternoon, she sensed her body needed to retreat for a while, simply so it could take in all that had happened to it. She supposed she might be going into some kind of delayed shock…although it was equally likely that her body was simply traumatised by the physical impact of being thrown through the air. She began to feel aches and pains in new places. Also, her arm was throbbing and her head was now aching abominably.

At the surgery, while Mary grabbed the pitifully few possessions that the Watsons had had the foresight to keep at work, Molly had her arm cleaned, stitched and re-dressed. Her sore head was carefully examined before being professed fine by John (although he did utter a few rude comments about her needing her head examined for getting romantically involved with the 'great git' in the first place).

Feeling dazed and exhausted, she accompanied the Watsons and Anthea back to Baker Street. Ignoring the meaningful looks exchanged by the Watsons and Mrs. Hudson, she took her steaming mug of tea straight into Sherlock's bedroom and sank onto the messy, half-made bed. She didn't particularly care what they thought. After taking the dose of paracetamol prescribed by John, she buried her nose in the soft cotton pillows that smelled comfortingly of Sherlock and fell asleep fully dressed.

She woke up an hour later – or rather was prodded awake by an apologetic Mary, who wanted to ask her a few annoying random questions to test her cognition levels. Mary also left an ice pack for the bump on Molly's forehead and a fresh cup of tea to replace the stone cold one.

She gulped down a few mouthfuls and was awake enough this time to kick off her trainers and remove her jeans before cocooning herself in Sherlock's duvet and drifting off again. She managed to wake up once more to sleepily assure Mrs. Hudson that she was still compos mentis, and then woke up naturally a little later.

She sat up, fuzzy mouthed and momentarily disorientated. It was dark outside, but an old-fashioned clock on a desk near the bed told her it was almost six. Her headache had abated and the pain in her arm had dwindled to a dull throb, so she decided to get up and see what was going on. There was also the matter of Greg to be resolved, and she suddenly felt guilty that she hadn't contacted him to make sure he was aware of the current danger.

She looked resignedly at her grubby top, remembering that she hadn't thought to ask Anthea to fetch any clean clothes. Nevertheless, there was a familiar holdall on the floor near the door and when she investigated, it was full of her clothes and toiletries. Although grateful, she wrote herself a severe mental note to ask just exactly _how_ Mycroft's assistant had gained access to her flat without the key. She could hear voices in the lounge, so she quickly pulled on a clean t-shirt and a pair of joggers and padded out to the bathroom to wash her face and generally freshen up.

Mary was composedly feeding Eleanor in one of the armchairs among a scene of considerable chaos. Almost every flat surface was covered in teetering piles of paper files and books. Every wall was littered with photographs, maps and post-it notes, all covered in black scribbles and connected by various lengths of string. The string even looped loosely across the room from pictures opposite each other.

"What on earth…?" She looked at Mary, who gave her a surprisingly calm smile for someone who had just lost practically everything she owned.

"Don't bother asking. I haven't. They've been at it since Sherlock got back."

She nodded towards the consulting detective. Molly perched on the arm of her chair, watching in fascination. He and John were batting names and dates to each other – John reading them from a file of loose-leaf papers in his hands. At each name, Sherlock stood motionless for a moment before leaping into activity again, ducking effortlessly under loops of string as he moved around the room. Sometimes, he drew a big cross through a particular name or photograph, other times he would scribble something indecipherable, and yet other times he would ply his ball of string and make yet another connection. Occasionally, he would shout "Stop!" and then sever one of the lines of string after a further moment's contemplation.

She'd seen Sherlock and John working together in the laboratory, of course, but had never before experienced the Baker Street phenomenon. She was struck by the level of energy in the room. It was chaos, but a beautifully organised chaos, with a purpose and a pattern all of its own.

A thought occurred to her. "Have you heard anything about Greg? Is he OK? That message was aimed at him, Sherlock thinks."

Mary nodded, lifting a sweetly sleeping Eleanor to her shoulder. "Look, why don't we grab some tea and take it upstairs, so I can put Ellie down."

Molly nodded. "OK. You go on up and I'll bring it."

She dodged under a line of string. John looked up and nodded at her with a grin when she mimed "tea?" at him. Sherlock, who was currently typing something on his laptop, seemed to be in a fairly good mood considering he was mid-investigation. As she went to pass him, he grabbed the hand of her good arm and pulled her around to face him, his sharp eyes taking her in carefully.

"You're feeling much better," he proclaimed eventually. "Your headache has gone. And you're calmer, although still worried about Lestrade."

She nodded, surprisingly not even remotely bothered by his usual ability to tell how she was feeling. "Is he alright?"

He nodded but didn't go into any details, and released her hand abruptly to turn back to his screen.

Since this was more attention than she had expected to receive, she went into the kitchen humming lightly, and made him a coffee along with the tea.

When she carried two mugs up the stairs into John's old room, she looked around with interest. Mary was not much of a home-maker, as she had freely admitted on more than one occasion, but she'd managed to make the room reasonably tidy. Molly was surprised to see that Ellie was sleeping in a beautiful white cot with some pretty yellow bedding and a pile of baby clothes and equipment on the bed.

Mary saw her glance and explained succinctly: "Anthea."

"Naturally," Molly replied tartly, before she could stop herself.

Mary giggled. "She's just a bit _too_ perfect, isn't she? I suspect she simply went to Harrods and flashed Mycroft's gold card at a professional shopper with some strict orders. Anyway, I don't mind in the slightest, since it's considerably more expensive than the one we had before, and anyway it saved me an urgent shopping trip. John's been working with Sherlock practically all afternoon, and Mrs. H. entertained Ellie while I had a nap. Now _she_ _is_ a treasure. If _I_ were Sherlock, I don't think I'd ever move out."

She gave Molly a sideways glance, but Molly ignored the implication and looked around with more attention. Apart from Ellie's new clothes, John and Mary's possessions were few – merely a couple of bags of spare clothes and a few toiletries.

"God, Mary, I'm _so_ sorry – you've lost _everything_. With all that happened, I hadn't given it a thought. At least, I assume nothing's redeemable from the flat?"

Mary shrugged, her eyes on her sleeping daughter. "At the end of the day, it's just stuff. We can always get new clothes and things."

"But all your memories…family heirlooms, that kind of thing…"

"What memories?" There was an oddly blank look on Mary's face. Catching Molly's eye, she went on quickly. "I mean – well, you know, the main thing is that _we're_ OK. You can replace objects."

"True enough." Molly let it drop, while mentally filing this new information about Mary. "Have you heard anything about Greg? I wanted to ring him before – I wish I _had_ now…"

"He's fine. Sherlock located him before Mycroft did, ironically. After hearing about the bomb, he'd gone in to Scotland Yard to see if he could help out in the office while the teams were out on the street. Sherlock went straight there. Greg was signing off paperwork in his office, apparently. Sherlock hung around there and basically made a nuisance of himself until Mycroft's team were in place."

"_Sherlock_? But I thought he was investigating the message…"

Even as she spoke, she realised how stupid that sounded. Why would Sherlock have needed to locate a _print_ bible when he could find out pretty much everything on his phone?

Mary grinned at her and held out her own mobile. It was open on a digital version of the King James Bible, with one of the verses highlighted – from 2 Samuel, chapter 11 and verse 20:

**And if so be that the king's wrath arise, and he say unto thee, Wherefore approached ye so nigh unto the city when ye did fight? knew ye not that they would shoot from the wall? **

"I feel pretty stupid now," she muttered, staring at the verse.

Mary squinted up at her. "Why? _I_ believed him too…for longer than I like to admit."

"But why didn't he just tell me he was going to find Greg?"

Mary shrugged. "Who knows? Perhaps he didn't want you to worry further? Perhaps he didn't like to admit that _he_ was worried. I think he cares more about Greg than he likes to let on."

"What's the key word?" she asked, still looking at the verse. "What was the last pair of numbers?"

"Thirty-three – and to save you counting, the key word is 'shoot'." Mary's voice was perfectly calm. "Rather predictable, I suppose."

"And Greg is definitely safe now?" Molly asked, doubtfully. Somehow, she couldn't imagine Greg Lestrade meekly agreeing to go off somewhere secret with Mycroft, a man he mildly disliked and even distrusted to some degree.

"Sherlock appeared to think so. I'm sure he wouldn't have left him, if he hadn't been safe." Mary hesitated. "But then…"

"What?" Molly asked as the other woman hesitated.

Mary gave her an apologetic look. "I was going to say, where _is_ safe when a sniper is involved? I mean, even if Mycroft _has_ got some secure and hidden place in the countryside where he keeps his compromised agents, the moment Greg steps outside of it for something as innocent as a walk, he's at risk… Sorry. I didn't mean to alarm you."

Molly sighed, feeling a little sick in the stomach. "No, it's OK - you're right. I should -."

She reached for her own phone, but Mary stopped her with a hand on her arm. "No. I _really_ wouldn't."

Molly paused, giving her a puzzled look. "Why on earth not?"

The other woman gave her a level look, and not for the first time, Molly reflected that there was something _hard_ about Mary Watson, well hidden beneath that bubbly, friendly exterior.

The woman studied her in an objective manner. "Think about it this way. You know Greg Lestrade better than I do. How do you think he'd react if he knew his life had been threatened?"

Molly frowned, trying to imagine. Greg always came across as quite level-headed, but... "He'd…well, he'd be _furious_. He wouldn't be scared at all, just pissed off that someone had dared to threaten him personally."

"_Exactly_," Mary said, watching her closely. "Would he meekly shuffle off to hide at some rehabilitation centre in the countryside while someone else investigates? Not a chance. And you can bet that Sherlock knows that. He wants Greg out of the way and _not_ interfering in his investigation, so he can concentrate on tracking the assassin down before anything happens."

Molly considered this. It did make some kind of twisted sense.

"Actually, I'm surprised he hasn't tried to contact me," she mused, looking at her phone in surprise. There were no missed calls at all.

"I suppose he had no idea you'd even be at the scene, unless you'd told him you were coming to visit us? He knew it was our flat, of course, and he was busy trying to contact John and Sherlock. He knows _now_ of course, but Sherlock told him you were resting and not to bother you."

Molly couldn't help smiling at the thought of _Sherlock_ telling _Greg_ to be considerate. Knowing them both as well as she did, she was a little surprised that Greg hadn't just told Sherlock to bugger off and phoned her anyway, but on the other hand, the dynamic between the three of them had changed recently. She wondered if Greg was currently adjusting to Sherlock's new identity as an apparently concerned boyfriend and whether he was wary of coming between them.

And actually it had been surprisingly sweet of Sherlock to think of her need for rest…

"I'd better speak to Greg anyway. Don't worry, I won't say anything," she added, as she dialed, stepping out onto the landing so she wouldn't disturb Eleanor.

Greg picked up immediately, sounding relieved. "_Molly? Thank God._ _You OK?"_

"Yes, I'm fine." Mary had followed her out, and she turned her back slightly to avoid the other woman's curious gaze. "I hear you went into work. Was that wise?"

"_I had some things I needed to do, but never mind about that – I'll tell you when I see you next. Sherlock said you were hurt. I was worried, but he said not to call._"

"Oh, it's only a few minor cuts and bruises really. Um – where are you now?"

"_Where_?" He sounded surprised. "_At home – why? Did you want me to come over_?"

"Oh no – _no_!" she assured him hurriedly. "I mean, I'm not at home anyway. I'm with Sherlock."

"_Oh – well, I won't disturb you then_." She could hear the caution in his voice and suspected she was right to think he might be worried about getting in the way. "_I…suppose Sherlock is busy investigating?_"

"Yeah, something like that," she agreed, noting the wistfulness in his tone. Greg had obviously missed watching Sherlock at work.

"_I meant to ring you tonight anyway_," he went on. "_How did you cope with that brother – Sherrinford wasn't it? Was he alright? Is he still around?_"

"Who?" She had to rack her brains for a moment, so much had happened since Friday night. "Oh, yes, Sherrin -," she stopped quickly, remembering Mary could hear her side of the conversation. "Oh, he's fine – I think. He left and I don't know where he went."

"_Weird bloke. Seemed even odder than Mycroft. I'd love to know what kind of childhood they had,_" he commented.

"I'll fill you in sometime," she said, smiling. "But Greg, I'd better go. I just wanted to let you know that I'm fine. Mary's here and we're sorting things out. They're staying at Baker Street for a few days."

"_OK, but take it easy. Shall we meet up for lunch soon? I haven't got much on this week – well, not anything to be honest…_"

"Er, yes, sure. Sometime soon," she said, noncommittally. Usually, this would be a cue for her to set a date, since his schedule was currently much freer than hers. "Um – bye, Greg. And you – you take care of yourself too, won't you?"

"_OK_." He sounded surprised, and perhaps a little hurt by her lack of enthusiasm for his suggested lunch date. "_Bye Molly_."

She disconnected the call, with a strange lump in her throat and unshed tears stinging her eyes all of a sudden. Mary was looking at her in some concern.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes." She turned her back again, wiping at her eyes fiercely. "Only, I _hate_ lying to my friend, and I'm _worried_ about him. What if Mycroft can't keep him safe?"

Mary opened her mouth to answer, but John suddenly ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. His head appeared above the railing and he looked at them both closely, his face grim.

"Possible breakthrough – or something like that. Need your help. Both of you," he said, tersely, and disappeared again.

Mary rolled her eyes at Molly. "Let's go down in a minute. I just need to unpack the high-tech baby monitor Anthea bought…_and_ work out how to operate it."

* * *

As Molly stepped back into the lounge, she was surprised to see that all the crudely stuck up photographs, maps and notes had been scrawled over with vivid red pen; the faces and locations of Moriarty's possible links savagely crossed out and the connecting strings cut and lying limply against the walls. Sherlock was sitting on his usual chair with his knees up, his face and indeed whole posture dejected as he stared into the fireplace.

"Well?" asked Mary as she came in behind Molly and stared around the walls in disbelief. "I thought you said you'd made a breakthrough?"

"Or something like that," muttered John, as he frowned at an open file on the table. "The breakthrough is that…there's _no_ breakthrough. Sherlock thought he must have missed some connection in Moriarty's empire when he was away. But _this_ lot -," he waved at the walls, "- they're _all_ accounted for. Dead or in prison or else just not in any kind of position to pull off an explosion in London. So this has to be some individual or group that _wasn't_ detected before…either by Sherlock _or_ Mycroft."

Molly looked at Sherlock, noting the expression of abject misery on his face as he crouched in his chair. She knelt in front of him and put her hands over his, squeezing them with instinctive sympathy. "It wasn't likely you'd missed anyone first time around anyway. You're far too thorough for that."

His eyes refocused and he glared at her, albeit in a half-hearted manner. "Well, of _course_ it wasn't likely. Nevertheless, I've clearly missed _something_." His eyes slid away from her to gaze into space again.

"I've missed something," he muttered. "Something. _What have I missed_?"

She looked at him with concern. The trouble with Sherlock was that he was normally such a bundle of sheer energy that it wasn't easy to spot when he was tired or injured. Observing him now, she could see that there were fine grains of dust from the explosion still etched into the creases of his face and a bruise that she hadn't noticed before blooming on his cheekbone. He'd made some effort to brush the detritus from the explosion from his clothes, but he smelt of smoke. Looking down at his hands, she saw numerous grazes that must have been caused by his efforts to rescue John from the shelter. Lifting one of them, she kissed the bruised knuckles gently.

"What you need – what we _all_ need – is fresh drinks and some food to keep us going."

She glanced up at John, who looked up, saw her expression and put his file down. "I'm on it. Indian OK?"

"And _you_," she gave Sherlock's hands a little shake. "You need to freshen up a bit. Have a shower and get changed. While you're doing that and John's ordering the takeaway, Mary and I will clear the decks a bit. Then we can sit down and go through what we already know – see if we can't help you remember something."

He looked at her a little blankly for a moment, but then nodded his head. As she stood and pulled him to his feet, he swayed a little and then leaned into her. His lips touched the top of her head and he lingered for a moment, seeming to take in a deep breath before stepping away from her again. He walked slowly into his bedroom and shut the door quietly behind him.

John had gone into the kitchen to order something. Mary was frowning at the walls.

"Do you suppose he wants to keep all of this?"

Molly hesitated. There was red pen scrawled liberally, almost wildly, over everything, but she didn't care to guess. "Let's just bung it all in a cardboard box, then he can sort it out later. The main thing is to get all of it down before Mrs. H. sees it and bursts a gut about her wallpaper."

As they dug out a spare box and started on the walls, she glanced worriedly at Sherlock's closed door. Mary, seeing her face, grimaced sympathetically and took the box out of her hands.

"We'll take care of this. You go and -." She jerked her head towards the door.

"OK, thanks. I'll just check he's OK."

Sherlock didn't respond to her quiet knock, so she opened the door and went in, closing it carefully behind her. He was standing in the middle of the room, holding his suit jacket in his hands and staring at the far wall.

Silently, she walked over to stand next to him and put her hand on his forearm. From behind, his stiff back had seemed forbidding and even now his face was impassive, but he trembled with some repressed emotion under her light touch.

Sensing that he needed to work through something in his own time, she stayed still, keeping her hand on his but lightly – simply as a point of contact.

Eventually, he shifted slightly, from one foot to the other, as a preliminary to speaking. "I wasn't supposed to warn you in time today."

She swallowed. "But you _did _warn us in time. You saved us."

He paused again. "But I wasn't _meant_ to." He shivered again, more visibly. "I was _supposed_ to see _them_ – _you_…die. That was the _purpose_."

Her hand tightened on his arm and she spoke loudly, and more harshly than she intended. "You can't focus on that. If you were constantly worried about the risk to John and Mary or to me, you'd never be able to investigate properly. You need to let us look after ourselves."

"_No_! You don't _understand_!" He pulled away from her, carelessly dropping his dirty suit jacket on the floor as he slumped onto the bed, his head in his hands. He looked up at her after a moment, his face chalk-white. "This isn't about Moriarty playing games to get my attention or - or threatening John to make me jump off a building. _That _was all about _me_ \- he gave me an _option_, something I could do to take the threat away." His fists clenched and unclenched. "But with _this_, there's _nothing_ I can do, _nothing_ I can say that will protect the people I -."

He broke off and stared at the floor, continuing to clench and unclench his fists.

After a pause, she sat down next to him. "There _is _something you can do. You can find him and stop him before he has a chance to try again."

He laughed bitterly. "And the _next_ time someone comes along wanting to destroy me? And the time after that? When does it end? I thought it _was _over when Moriarty died, and then along came Magnussen… And now…" He looked up at her, an odd twisted smile on his face. "It was fun once, when I could focus on the Work – when I could investigate the crimes without expecting to be the target. Do you remember those days?"

She ran her eyes over his face. There was no doubt that he had aged in a general way, particularly during his years away, but despite knowing his face so well she hadn't really noticed the specifics. Now she examined individual features and compared them with her visual memory of that day, seven years ago, when he had moved so energetically into her life. She'd been a naïve 26-year-old then and he barely in his thirties but appearing much younger. Now he was nearing forty and at times looked much older. Stress, lost sleep and a poor diet had taken their toll over the years, and the near-fatal shooting last autumn had taken a lot out of him. She visually traced the new lines around his compressed mouth, the dark smudges under his eyes, the dark, cynical expression in those bright intelligent eyes.

She lifted a hand and gently traced the path her eyes had taken. His eyes fluttered shut at the touch of her fingers over the bruise on his cheek.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, not entirely sure what she was apologizing for. "I'm _so sorry_, Sherlock."

His eyes opened again and he caught at her hand as he stared at her, pressing it hard against his cheek, even though it must be hurting him. "_Don't_ be. Don't _ever_ be sorry, Molly."

He moved her hand to his lips, shutting his eyes again as he kissed her fingers before smiling – an odd crooked little smile. "I believe _now_ that it was worth it. It was all worth it…whatever happens. And Mycroft was _wrong_ about this, if nothing else. I know that now. Caring _is_ an advantage…or rather, I should say that _not_ caring is _not_ an advantage. If I had never loved you, if I had never met John, I would…" He swallowed, letting her hand drop from his face. "It's possible that I would have been no better than Moriarty by now. If I had had nothing to come back for…"

The past tense worried her; she leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his. "_Don't_, please. _Don't_ start thinking it's over. I'm here, John's here. You're not alone." She breathed the words into his mouth, little more than an exhalation. "_I love you_."

He shivered, his lips finding hers almost automatically. At first he simply pressed his mouth to hers, as if trying to breathe her in, but then he started to kiss her. It was hard and unyielding and more than a little desperate, but she let him take control, sensing his need.

His large hands came up to hold her closer to him, one tangled in her hair, the other flat on her back; her own hands circled his shoulders and gripped them tightly. They kissed for long minutes, neither of them attempting to turn the act into anything more obviously sexual. It was simply a contact borne of desperation, of a desire to simply _hold_ and _be_ held, to try to hold back the real world for just a few short precious moments. The stubble on his cheek scraped her skin, and she felt warm moisture between their faces and was unsure whether the tears were falling from her eyes or his.

Eventually, he pulled away, his face dropping to her neck as he took in shuddering breaths. She held him and waited for the words to come.

Eventually… "I don't know how to _keep_ this, Molly." His face was buried in her shoulder, his voice muffled. "It feels as if I have a choice. Either I get you, and John and Mary…" He lifted his face to look at her, his eyes red-rimmed and desperate. "Or…" and his expression changed with frightening speed; the strain and fear and complicated emotion disappearing in an instant to be replaced by a smooth cold mask of indifference. He stood up and moved away from her, his voice as icy as she had ever heard it as he carried on. "Or I get to solve this case. There _is_ no alternative, just as Mycroft said."

She stared up at him, pushing her tangled hair back. "But – but, just now, you said that Mycroft was _wrong_…"

He looked at her for a long minute and then his cold mask fell away abruptly. "Yes, and he _is_ wrong – and we have to prove it. _I _have to prove that I can solve this case and still keep…_this_."

He held out a hand to her and she rose, struck by the broken expression on his face. "You keep me _right_, Molly. Not strong or sharp or fast, but… just _right_. You, and John, and Mary, and Mrs. Hudson, and Greg…but especially _you_." He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly against him. "You're my compass." She felt the press of his lips against her hair before he whispered so quietly she could hardly hear him. "And I love you so much that sometimes it frightens me…"

She pressed her cheek against his heart, taking in that unique Sherlock-scent, familiar and comforting and yet exciting too. His arms tightened again and she guessed, as he did, that the real world was about to intrude once more.

It did so in the most prosaic of manners. With a tentative knock at the door and a cough, John announced. "Food's arrived."

She sighed and pulled back, smiling up at him. "Come on, then. Let's get on with it."

For a moment longer, the lost, desperate expression remained on his face, but then it changed to grim determination. He straightened his posture and smoothed his shirt down in a familiar manner, once more Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. "Yes."


	32. Chapter 32

**I'm not overly happy with this chapter, but I'm about to go on holiday and I couldn't keep re-writing it forever... so I'm sorry if it doesn't seem quite smooth. I may rewrite elements when I'm back, but the story is as I plan it to go. Warning: major character death.  
**

**I had a real problem working out where John and Mary might live – it had to be somewhere reasonably affordable for a couple to rent while one is on maternity leave, and it had to have a sense of the kind of people I think they are. I have no idea where the canon Watsons live, but in my mind-set, they're West Londoners…however, if I placed them in somewhere like Acton, Sherlock wouldn't have got to them quite so quickly! So I've picked Maida Vale for no particular reason, except that A. I like the name and B. It's (allegedly) only 5-10 minutes by taxi from Baker Street, and I needed Sherlock to be able to get there quickly. It is, however, quite expensive there, which might not **_**entirely**_** fit with the brief glimpses we had of their flat in season 3!**

* * *

**Chapter 32**

"Right…so what we know _so_ far -," John commented, as he dug into his Indian takeaway, "- is that the person who tried to kill us is related to Moriarty…"

"What, _actually_ related?" Mary queried, looking revolted at the notion of Moriarty having a living family.

"Figure of speech," John continued, mumbling through a mouthful of samosa. "OK – _connected _in some way, to Moriarty, who is dead according to Sherlock, but -."

"_Is_ dead," Sherlock interrupted, giving John a look of distaste for his poor table manners. Molly had noticed in the past that he could be quite fastidious in matters of dining etiquette – whenever it suited _him_ that was.

"- but may _not_ be, according to your brother," John continued, unabashed as he swallowed his food. "And it's not anyone you've encountered in the past. And it's _also_ someone who either hasn't had the motivation to act earlier or hasn't had the opportunity – would that be fair?" He paused. "Otherwise, why strike _now_ instead of at any time in the last couple of years, when I would have been a far easier target? What happened in January – assuming that's the same person – to make them start this…campaign? And what do they want? And – simply – who are they? Have you any ideas about identity?"

Sherlock put down his fork and pushed his half-eaten plate of chicken biryani away from him before running a hand through his curls, still damp from the quick shower he had taken before changing into clean clothes. The four of them were clustered around the coffee table. John had lit the fire, and they had pulled the armchairs and sofa a little nearer to it to make the most of the warmth.

While Mary had sorted out the dishes and John had cleaned Sherlock's various wounds, they'd switched on to watch the 6PM news on BBC1, which was naturally dedicated almost entirely to the explosion in Maida Vale late that morning. It was the biggest terrorist atrocity in London since the 07/07 bombings, with the latest mortality figure at seventeen and likely to rise, and many surviving casualties with severe and life-changing injuries. Ian Dimmock did a sombre piece to camera outside New Scotland Yard, largely reiterating what they already knew: it was impossible to confirm that the perpetrator was al-Qaeda-related at this stage, enquiries were continuing, people should remain in their homes, no non-essential travel, condolences to the families etc. etc. Of the Watsons, Sherlock and Moriarty there was not a mention.

No one objected when John eventually switched the TV off. Molly was sickened by the prospect of sitting down to a takeaway when so many people had died or were currently fighting for life. This was no anonymous West-hating terrorist organisation seeking to create fear and death across the streets of London; this – all of it, the deaths, and the injuries – was aimed _solely_ at one person. And innocent people had died, simply to make some kind of twisted _point_.

She pushed her food around the plate, unable to digest it. John – and Mary too? - must have been more inured to violence and killing, because they were digging in to their meals enthusiastically.

Sherlock stared into the crackling fire and counted on his fingers.

"First – why strike _now_ and what happened in January. You need to go back _further_ \- to Christmas Day, when I killed Magnussen. Either his death is the _motivation_ or it gave this individual the _opportunity_. But if this is revenge for _Magnussen_, then why show the world an image of _Moriarty_? So, it's the latter – there was no opportunity until Magnussen was removed…which is odd because I'm quite sure _Magnussen_ had no reason to protect me…" He paused, frowning a little as if something significant had just occurred to him, before shaking his head briskly and continuing.

"A second reason for acting then was that the individual must have _known_ I was about to leave Britain. They didn't want me separated from you all – specifically from John – so they had to act _then_, forcing Mycroft to recall me immediately."

"Why not specifically from _John_?" asked Mary.

Sherlock hesitated, glancing at her before returning his gaze to the fire and continuing in a quick impersonal manner. "Because the intention is to finish what Moriarty started. To kill John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, one by one. Moriarty's original targets. And to do it in such a manner that I would know that I _could_ have saved them, but didn't quite make it in time. That wouldn't work if I was abroad. And that's precisely what was intended this morning. I was supposed to get the clue and the warning – and possibly even turn up in time - but not have _quite enough_ _time_ to save you."

Mary frowned. "But you _did_ have time. They – this person - must have known that was a possibility, surely?"

Sherlock shook his head. "If you look at the service updates on your media provider's website, you will see that your area landline went down at 11.38 precisely this morning. One minute before I received the message at 11.39. Nine minutes before I rang Molly at 11.47, having worked out the cypher. And the bomb exploded sixteen minutes after my phone call, at 12.03 – twenty five minutes after the line in your area went down, and it wasn't restored for another thirty-five minutes. I haven't had time to check, but I'm willing to bet your mobile phone company was similarly affected. The bomber assumed I would try to contact John – or Mary if I couldn't immediately get through to him – and then having tried and failed to contact you, I would have to hurry to get to you in time. There was always the chance that I wouldn't have made it in time – and I probably wouldn't if the traffic hadn't been lighter than usual on a Sunday morning _and_ if my driver hadn't happened to know a few short cuts." He looked at Molly. "They either didn't realise you were there or they didn't think I'd try your number first."

"More likely the latter," she said slowly, thinking.

"Oh? What makes you think that?" John asked.

She expected Sherlock to jump in, but he didn't speak, instead looking at her with an unfathomable expression as he waited for an answer.

She flushed a little, embarrassed by the attention. "Oh. Well, I'm probably wrong, just thinking aloud – you know... Only…well, I assume the person was watching the flat and knew you were there, so they must have seen me go in. But also, there was that chat room thing I did, the night Ellie was born. If the person – was it VaticanCameos? – _if_ they'd been monitoring me that night, they'd have assumed from what I said that Sherlock didn't have anything to do with me. So they wouldn't expect him to try to ring me _at all_, let alone before contacting John or Mary." She shook her head, smiling slightly. "I didn't count…_again_."

"A fatal error of judgement," Sherlock murmured, his expression impassive, but she sensed the warmth in his tone. "Molly is right, of course. She was perceived, _once again_, to be insignificant. With an emphasis on the '_was'_, unfortunately."

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock gave Molly a significant look. "If anyone watched the aftermath of the explosion and observed us together, they would have noticed that I'm _hardly_ indifferent."

"Ah, I see." She frowned, remembering how he'd grabbed her hand after the explosion and then the gentle way he'd kissed her head. Yes – if someone _had_ been watching, they'd _certainly_ know how much she mattered to Sherlock. "Is…is that why you wanted me to come back to Baker Street tonight? Because _I'm_ now at risk too?"

"I'm not certain." He frowned, his hands folded under his chin. "Mycroft has already arranged a security search at your block of flats, but I don't expect his team to find anything. No –the next target is _certainly_ Lestrade."

"And we _still_ haven't told him anything." She felt her eyes prickle again and cleared her throat, furious with herself for getting emotional. "I'm _sure_ that's a mistake."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "Mycroft will sort him out."

"Greg is not a _thing_ to be sorted out, Sherlock! What makes you think that Mycroft can keep him safe?" She shook her head. "I don't like it. I don't think it's going to work. Something will go wrong."

John sighed. "What's the alternative?"

She shook her head, disbelieving. "I can't _believe_ you! At what point did the two of you – the _three_ of you – decide that Greg should be excluded? It's not as if you haven't worked with him before. You know he's more than competent to help you."

John shook his head firmly. "Not with his current medical condition. He can't be put under any stress, you _know_ that. No, Sherlock's right. Better to get him out of the way until it's all over."

"You don't know him as well as I do." She discarded her uneaten food and leaned forward to emphasise her point. "I'm not so sure that he'll just go. A sudden invitation to a Met rehabilitation centre? He's got to be suspicious about that -."

"Mycroft will have it in hand," Sherlock interrupted, briskly. "If Lestrade doesn't fall for it, he'll take him into protective custody."

"That'll be even worse! He doesn't like being ordered about, and especially not by your brother. In fact, if he suspected Mycroft was involved, he'd be even more likely to dig his heels in."

"That's ironic in the circumstances," Mary commented mysteriously.

Sherlock glared at her, appearing to catch her meaning. John looked as confused as Molly felt, but shook his head impatiently. "This isn't getting us anywhere. To get back to the case, we know there's a connection between this person and Moriarty, that he or she is targeting -."

"_She_," Sherlock interrupted.

John gave him a wry look. "You were wrong about Irene Adler."

"I'm not wrong about _this_. It's a woman." Sherlock leaned back in his armchair, his hands slipping to his chest. "And there's no need to discuss it any further. I know what I need to investigate next."

He didn't sound overly happy about it, a fact that didn't escape John as he frowned at his friend. "Care to fill us in?"

Sherlock paused for a moment, staring into the fire. Normally, if he had discovered a new lead, he would be on his feet, already planning his next move. Eventually, he spoke.

"Mary was actually on the right track earlier, when she queried your use of the word 'related'. I should have guessed sooner. This _is_ a relative of Moriarty. Likely a sister. And she's seeking revenge."

"How can you be certain?" John asked, tentatively breaking the shocked silence that greeted Sherlock's words.

"The key lies with Magnussen. You were _there_, John. You saw what he was like. How he _owned_ people. How he kept his knowledge in his Mind Palace." He looked down at his hands. "I should have guessed. He _knew_ Moriarty. He didn't 'own' him as he did…others, but he knew _all_ about him. And he must have known his family background. He was clever, Magnussen – oh, _so_ clever. He knew a female relative of Moriarty's – this is a woman, I'm certain of it – and he _told _her what happened on the roof that day. Not while he was alive. He had made arrangements for her to learn the truth after his death. She could be a sister, a cousin or a niece. Not an older relative – this is someone who idolised Moriarty at some point in her life, so a younger relative – likely a younger sister. And she feels a responsibility to finish what he started."

He sighed. "And _that_ means I'll have to ask Mycroft for a favour…and he'll be unbearably smug. His team has been investigating Moriarty's background. John…"

John looked at the pleading expression on his face and sighed. "Yes, _alright_, I'll endure your brother's unbearable smugness to pick up whatever intelligence he has on Moriarty's family background -."

"Happily for John's sanity, that won't be necessary," came a new and familiar voice.

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes as the others spun to face the door. "Do you _ever_ bother to knock?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Would you answer the door if I did?" He stepped into the room, his eyes flickering to the table. "_Well_. This looks to be a cosy arrangement."

Sherlock jumped to his feet and stalked over to his older brother, holding out a hand. "Alright, where is it?"

Mycroft contemplated his brother for a moment, as if waiting to hear the magic 'please', before rolling his eyes, retrieving a USB from his breast pocket and handing it over. "All the data is saved on here. No need to thank me. _Do_ try not to leave it lying around."

Sherlock merely snorted and took it over to his laptop.

Mycroft, seeming quite unruffled by his brother's rude behaviour, wandered towards the table and helped himself to a poppadum. As he nibbled it, he favoured Molly with a stiff smile. "My team have finished their security analysis of your block of flats and all is well. You are safe to return…when you wish to."

The implication was heavy and she blushed for no particular reason. It was stupid to be embarrassed by the fact that Mycroft knew she was sharing a bed with his brother, but she couldn't help it. There was something so…_disapproving_ about Mycroft.

She was saved the bother of replying by Mary jumping in with: "Thanks for the clothes and baby stuff, Mycroft. It's such a relief to have what we need for Ellie."

"We'll pay you back as soon as the insurance comes through," her husband added, quickly.

Mycroft looked a little startled and Molly suspected that he either had no knowledge of Anthea's purchases or, more likely, hadn't given them a single thought. "Ah, well, no rush."

"Mycroft – what about Greg?" Molly asked. "What's the plan? I'm not happy that he doesn't know what's going on."

Mycroft gave her an oddly sharp look. "I have arranged matters as Sherlock requested. The DI will receive a letter in the morning, which will be followed by a car to take him to the rehabilitation facility. His flat is being watched now."

She stood up, stepping closer to him to speak in a low voice. "You can't be happy about this, surely? You _know_ Greg. I don't know why Sherlock is keeping him at a distance."

From the way he looked at her, she sensed that Mycroft agreed with her to some extent. His voice, however, was coldly objective. "I have to assume that my brother and John have made the correct decision. I'm informed that his health is not good at present, and John appears to be of the opinion that the stress would not help him." He redirected his attention to Sherlock. "Well? Anything useful?"

Sherlock grunted. He was currently flicking through scanned documents on the USB. "Did you managed to track down his birth certificate?"

Mycroft hesitated, looking pained. "There were some difficulties. We traced him to Bristol, where he attended school – as you already know, assuming he was responsible for the death of that schoolboy. He appears to have been in care – foster care until the age of ten, but he was living in a children's home at the time of Carl Powers' death. How he came to be under the care of Bristol social services is not known, since whatever records they may had held for him appear to have been destroyed in a fire. I surmise that he was adopted from a children's home in Ireland, brought over to England and, for some reason, the adoption didn't work out." He sniffed. "Presumably his psychopathic tendencies came to the fore during childhood, and the new parents were unable to cope. We cannot trace them."

Molly walked towards Sherlock to peer over his shoulder. "What about the foster parents he was placed with in Bristol? Can't they be traced?"

For answer, Sherlock clicked on an image of a front page of the Bristol Evening Post, dated 7th November 1994. It described the gruesome discovery at their semi-detached house of a middle-aged couple's battered and mutilated bodies. Police were baffled as to the motive, as the couple hadn't had any obvious enemies. They were a lovely couple, everyone had liked them, and despite never having had their own children, they had worked with the children's department at Bristol social services, looking after troubled youngsters…

She gave Mycroft a horrified look. "Did _he_ do that?"

Mycroft spread his hands wide. "The perpetrator was never apprehended. And there was no apparent motive. No burglary."

Sherlock grunted. "I need to go to Ireland."

* * *

Molly watched as Sherlock threw some clothes into a duffel bag, having managed to get a last-minute seat on a BA flight leaving later that night. He was already dressed for the persona he would be adopting in Dublin: a researcher for a legal team trying to track down surviving members of the Moriarty family for an unexpected legacy. To this end, he was wearing an off-the-peg suit teamed with a short leather jacket. His curls had been slicked back in a severe hairstyle that really didn't suit him.

"And you _really _have to go there? You can't, I don't know, just _find_ the information on the Internet?"

"If it were that easy, Mycroft's people would have been able to locate the information." He was rolling up a spare shirt with a neat efficiency that would have surprised anyone who assumed that Sherlock was a slob in his personal life. He glanced up at her as he placed it in his bag. "I won't be gone for long. There's something being covered up here – something about the manner of his adoption. I need to _be_ there – to observe and to work out who is lying and why."

He zipped up the bag and lifted it off the bed. "You can stay here for as long as you want. It's not a problem, and I won't be long."

"It's OK," she responded, watching him carefully. "I'll go back to my flat tomorrow morning. I'll be fine now that Mycroft's got it under surveillance."

He seemed to hesitate before accepting that with a brief nod. "As you wish, but I wouldn't go out too much. Stay at home if you can."

"Sherlock -," she stopped him with a hand on his arm. "- _why_ won't you speak to Greg, or let me tell him? I don't buy this idea that he needs to be kept out of the way. He won't go quietly – you must _know_ that, surely? You know better than anyone how he's likely to respond."

He paused, his hand on the bedroom door handle. "Why are you so concerned?"

"_Why_? How can you even ask that! _Greg_ has a – a _gun_ pointed at his head! We don't know _who_ it is, we have no idea _when_ or _where_! I can't understand why you're _not _concerned."

He hesitated again before shaking his head. "He can't help me this time. Mycroft has it under control – you really shouldn't worry about him."

She shook her head, suddenly hating him for his indifference. "I can't help it. I _care_ about him, and sometimes I think -."

She broke off – it had been on the tip of her tongue to say that she wasn't at all sure that he cared about Greg. And yet that was unfair. He'd shown in the past that Greg _did _matter to him, even if he was frequently rude to the DI and persisted in refusing to remember his first name.

He didn't try to refute her unspoken comment. "I have to go now, if I'm going to get this flight."

After a further moment's hesitation, he kissed her cheek, but his lips felt cold and impersonal. It was as if he was already elsewhere. "Remember what I said about not going out more than you can help."

* * *

It was not usually in Molly's nature to ignore sensible advice, which had also been reiterated by Mycroft, but some devil made her decide to defy it the very next morning. Instead of hailing a taxi and going straight home as originally planned, she turned right out of 221B and walked up to Baker Street Station to get the tube to Bart's. She had slept poorly after Sherlock's departure and had woken up and left the flat early, determined to do something to take her mind off her worries.

The pathology department was a scene of controlled chaos, having received many of the victims of the previous day's bombing. However, Mike refused to allow Molly to help out; having given the bump on her head a cursory look, he signed her off for five days. As she left, she caught a glimpse of Rosie hurrying into the office clutching a number of files. The girl gave her a quick wink as she passed.

Molly left the hospital and turned down the street towards St. Paul's tube station. Her route took her right in front of the roof from which Sherlock had fallen, but for once she didn't give it much thought. Her mind was on Greg – where was he now? Would she be justified in ringing Mycroft just to check that all had gone as planned?

"Molly!"

She spun at the familiar voice, her heart in her mouth. "_God_, _Greg_, you – um – you startled me! What on _earth_ are you doing here?" Her mind was racing – surely Mycroft had already moved him? Sherlock had said…

Greg's face was grim, not a trace of the affectionate smile he usually reserved for Molly. He took her by the arm, pulling her out of the way of passing pedestrians. "What's going on, Molly? What's Sherlock working on – and _why_ am I being side-lined?"

"I…don't know what you mean, Greg. I thought you'd gone away…" she broke off and bit her lip, realising that she shouldn't have known that.

He shook his head impatiently, appearing to ignore her little faux pas. "I'm not _that_ stupid. I get a letter telling me that my health insurance covers a brief stay at some rehabilitation place for police officers in leafy Oxfordshire and that a vacancy has miraculously become available, as long as I leave today… _Bollocks _does my insurance cover it – it's a shit insurance policy and I know that unexpected stays in luxury rural retreats don't feature. They even sent a _car_. _Someone's_ trying to get me out of the way, and my guess is Mycroft, and before I go slinking off to God-knows-where, I want to know _why_…"

She tried to force a smile on her face but it came out as a grimace. The words on Mary's phone from the previous night were flashing through her brain - _knew ye not that they would shoot from the wall?_ – and her eyes went quickly to the blank facades of the buildings opposite. Office blocks, the ambulance station that had hidden John's view of Sherlock's fall, some empty apartments… Her heart began to beat faster. So many covered windows, so many hidden corners… Somewhere over there, a sniper had stood with his gun targeting John…

"Molly?" Greg was frowning at her. "What's the matter?"

"I need – uh, I really need a drink," she muttered. "Coffee…there's a Costa's just up here…come on."

She grabbed his hand and tugged him along the street, walking quickly and trying to keep the two of them amongst the hurrying crowds. The coffee shop she was thinking of was around the corner in a quieter street – was that more of a risk then staying among the crowds and presenting a more difficult target? Should she have taken him back towards Bart's instead? She tried to imagine what Mycroft or Sherlock would do. She needed to contact one of them as quickly as possible – Mycroft would be best. But she needed to be able to sit down somewhere to get her phone out…and she needed to pacify Greg without giving him too much information, _and_ keep him out of sight too…

She managed to find them a secluded booth at the back of the crowded Costa's – a miracle in itself – deposited a confused-looking Greg at the table and ordered a black coffee for herself and a healthier fruit tea for him.

He sipped his tea, grimacing at the taste. "What is it, then? You were acting so mysterious yesterday, and then I got that surprise letter this morning - and just now? You looked _terrified_ out there, as if you thought we might be attacked…" His voice trailed away and she saw the moment that comprehension appeared on his face. "_Molly_. _Who is the target_?"

"Um, I don't…" she muttered, digging for her phone in her bag with one hand while she stirred her coffee with the other. Some time ago, she'd put Mycroft's number second on her speed dial, just behind Sherlock's. Shortly after the events in January, Mycroft had sent her a special number, saying that if she was ever in trouble and not able to ring or text properly, she simply had to send a blank message to it and he would locate her immediately. "It's just… Just a minute and I'll tell you…"

Her questing fingers finally located the phone; she pulled it out, found the number and hit Send.

His eyes followed her actions. "Is that _Mycroft's _number? Where's Sherlock? I went to Baker Street but no one was there."

Her phone beeped and looking down, she saw Mycroft's terse reply. "Understood. Stay in your current location." She breathed out, feeling a knot in her stomach disappear, although her pulse was still hammering. Mycroft would sort everything out…

She dropped the spoon in her cup and leaned across the table, meeting Greg's gaze. Time to be honest. "Sherlock flew to Dublin last night," she muttered, keeping her voice low. "I don't know where John and Mary are – they should have been there… It's to do with Moriarty, they think. And they – they believe someone is trying to kill Sherlock's friends, and – and that _you're_ at risk."

Greg hesitated, his expression frozen for a moment, and then he gave a tense nod. "Right. And the nature of the risk?"

His voice was brisk, surprisingly objective, but he also glanced towards the windows at the front of the busy café.

She followed his gaze, nervously. "They think a sniper probably. Like the one that would've shot you if Sherlock hadn't fallen from Bart's. That's why I just called Mycroft. He's sending security right now. He told us to stay put."

He nodded tersely, rubbing his hand over his chin – a nervous habit she recognized of old. His dark eyes kept flickering towards the door, but so far there was just a steady stream of ordinary-looking commuters entering and exiting the café. "I see. Why didn't you tell me any of this before?"

She felt tears forming in her eyes and blinked quickly. "I… I wanted to. I kept saying that it would be best to tell you, but…" She swallowed, not sure how to put it. "They thought you might try to get too involved if you knew. That you might…"

"Get in the way?" He finished the sentence for her, his voice hard. His head was bent over the table, his hand fiddling with his teaspoon.

"I'm sorry, Greg." She reached a timid hand across the table.

After a moment, he dropped the spoon and put his hand on hers. She looked up and saw with relief that he was smiling at her, although there was still some hurt in his eyes.

"He may have been right," he added, after a further pause and another glance at the door. "I don't cope well with threats, as you know. Hate doing _nothing_ while some _bastard_ has the nerve to hold a pistol to my head…metaphorically speaking."

She squeezed his fingers hard, shivering a little. "Maybe not so metaphorical, if Sherlock is right."

He hummed his agreement, tightening his hold on her hand. "Do you suppose there's a back door to this place?"

She shook her head, worriedly. "I don't know whether we should move. Isn't it safer here, in a busy café? You probably know better than me – you must have done enough undercover work in your time."

"Yeah, about that…" The little tense smile dropped from his face. "I wanted to tell you – it's why I wanted to meet you this week… I've decided to give it all up."

"What – the _job_?" She was distracted for a moment by this news. "_Really_?"

He nodded. "Taking early retirement. That's what I was doing at the Yard yesterday – sorting out the paperwork. I won't be going back after my sick leave." He gave her a slightly embarrassed, grin. "Was thinking about that Caribbean beach house. Now the wife's finally gone, and with my health problems and all that…it feels like the right time."

It had been on the tip of her tongue to protest, but something about the defeated expression on his face stopped her. For all the stresses and strains, Greg _loved_ his job – always had. He must have struggled before finally making a decision, so she could only assume that he'd weighed up all the advantages and disadvantages already.

She let out a shuddering breath instead. "You're probably right but…" She managed a shaky smile for him. "But I'll miss you like mad, coming into the lab. And Friday nights at the pub. God, I'll miss _you_."

The warmth was back in his eyes as he smiled at her, a genuine smile now. "Me too. You'll have to come and visit me when I find that beach house. Make sure you do… And you've got Sherlock anyway."

Something in the slightly self-deprecating way in which he uttered the final sentence made her grip his hand even harder. "He could never replace you, Greg. These last couple of years – and the last few months in particular – I'd have never got through them if it hadn't been for you. Tom…then Sherlock getting shot… You _must_ know how much you mean to me. No one could ever come close."

"Not even the Great Git himself?"

She smiled at this, and then sobered up again quickly. "This is taking too long; I feel like we're sitting ducks. Maybe you were right about the back door… I wish Mycroft would hurry up."

He laughed, grimly. "It's not often I agree with you about bloody _Mycroft Holmes_, but this time -."

The door opened again, and she half-turned towards it automatically, part of her expecting to see a couple of Mycroft's operatives entering. She didn't see the man clearly, and afterwards she would struggle to recall a single detail about him.

She heard the bang though.

Jerking her head back to Greg, she saw with horror the expression of blank surprise on his face and the blooming rosette of dark red, spreading obscenely across his forehead…before the light went out of his eyes for the very last time.

She was already screaming as he crashed forward onto the table, his fingers suddenly limp in hers.

* * *

**I'm sorry...please don't hate me...**


	33. Chapter 33

**Sorry for the shock of the last chapter. Believe me, I hated doing that to my lovely Greg :-(**

* * *

**Chapter 33**

She slumped on the pavement just outside the café, scarcely aware of the damp chill seeping through her jeans, staring at her feet without really seeing them.

The police officers had kept a respectful distance from her, beyond escorting her away from Greg's body in order to give the paramedics the space they required to assess and confirm what she already knew. She had a vague memory of screaming in wordless protest as she was moved and his limp fingers slipped out of hers. She recalled a female police officer pressing a coffee upon her; she was still holding the plastic takeaway cup of cold and bitter-smelling liquid between her stiff hands. Officers and forensic investigators came and went around her, their blue and white clothed figures blurry in her frozen vision. The café patrons and staff, frightened, many of them crying, had long-since been interviewed and allowed to go home. The familiar white tent had been erected over the café's doorway, and she sat on, numb, uncaring, on the wet concrete.

Familiar legs stopped in front of her, crouching, and rough warm hands took the cup from her cold fingers. John's concerned face, his bright-blue searching eyes, swam into view as she focused her vision properly for the first time in hours.

"Come on." He shook her hands briskly. "Get up, Molly." He didn't try to comfort her, probably knowing that it would be impossible.

"I can't." The voice that emerged didn't sound like her. It was hard and harsh and breathy. She swallowed through a dry throat. "I can't move."

"Yes, you _can_." He grasped her forearms and stood up, pulling her roughly to her feet. "Come on, come with me. They're moving his – they're moving Greg."

His voice shook slightly on the last words, and it was this that broke her. Clinging to him, she sobbed into the rough tweed of his jacket. "I – I couldn't help him – I tried, John, I tried – I couldn't -."

He held her tightly, his warm arms firm around her, rubbing her back and muttering soothing nonsense as she choked out the story, soaking his shoulder with her tears. She felt his body stiffen and his hands stop after a few moments and lifted her head, knowing what she would see.

She didn't think she could cry any more than she already had. It didn't seem possible for the human body to hold that many tears. They ran down her face as she stood watching, a hand over her mouth to stifle her sobs, as the covered body was carried out on a trolley and wheeled up the road towards the familiar entrance to Bart's pathology department. It was _wrong_, it was _impossible_! She rocked on her toes, barely repressing the urge to run forward and pull the sheet back, to confirm that it had all been wrong, that it would be someone else under there, not Greg, _not Greg_. _It was wrong_.

_Greg _should be walking out of the crime scene at this very moment, looking at the victim with a grim face and assessing eye, not the anonymous DI that she didn't recognise. He followed the trolley for a moment before turning and giving her a measured glance. He must have been pulled in from elsewhere so that Greg's immediate colleagues wouldn't have to investigate his murder.

John's hand tightened on her shoulder. "She'll give her statement at the Yard later," he told the DI, his voice unyielding.

The DI hesitated, frowning at the military authority in John's tone, then took another careful look at her and nodded his head in agreement. He was young – _too_ young, her mind supplied.

"Come on," John said again, taking her arm and leading her towards a familiar black car. She went cold at the sight, digging her heels in and forcing him to a stop.

"_No_. I'm not getting in there," she told him firmly, feeling a little flicker of anger heating her body. She had no way of knowing who was in the car, but it didn't matter.

John paused, seeming uncertain, but she turned with determination towards Bart's. "They'll need someone to identify him," she said over her shoulder.

"They'll be calling his ex-wife for the formalities," John called after her. "I'm sorry, Molly, but you're not family."

Her steps faltered but only momentarily. "I won't leave him," she muttered as she followed the body on the trolley. "I _can't_ leave him."

* * *

John brought her another cup of coffee from the hospital canteen, and this time she drank it, feeling the bitter hot liquid scalding her throat. He handed her a banana and a small packet of biscuits as well, standing over her as she forced them down.

When she had finished, he sighed and sat down in a chair very abruptly, putting his head in his hands. It occurred to her suddenly that she was not the only one grieving, but she couldn't summon up the energy or desire to comfort him. She didn't ask where Mary was or if she knew what had happened. She felt icy-cold deep inside – a chill that no hot drink could cure.

They were in a small laboratory at Bart's – coincidentally the very same laboratory that she had been standing in when she had first offered Sherlock her help all those years ago. John had steered her into it earlier, when the on-call pathologist had told them that Greg's ex-wife was coming to identify his body. She had gone unresisting, having no desire to lay eyes on the woman that had made her friend's life a misery for so many years.

"Sherlock knows. He's getting the next flight back," he said eventually, breaking the silence.

"Is he?" she answered blankly, not really thinking about it.

John sighed deeply and stared at his feet, not seeming to notice her lack of response to Sherlock's name.

"Do you think we could see him now?" she asked, after another brief silence.

"Would you want to?" His voice was heavy, unutterably weary. "You know he won't be…how we remember him. I don't know if I can bear to see that."

"I have to, John." She swallowed, feeling more tears welling up. It felt as if she would never be able to stop crying; her face felt hot and swollen. "I _have_ to – otherwise I can't believe it's really _him_."

John looked up at her, his red-rimmed eyes suddenly wary. "You _saw_ him – _it…_happen. They told me you were there with him… And you said…"

She frowned, trying to remember clearly. The bang – no more than a _pop_ really, it could have been a cork from a bottle… That bloom of red spreading rapidly from the hole in the centre of Greg's forehead… His eyes going blank, the life going out of his fingers…

The tears ran down her face again. "I _have_ to see him, one more time. _Please_, John. Let me say goodbye."

* * *

She knew the process, had been through it hundreds of times…but on those occasions, she had been the person standing to one side ready to cover the face again, full of calm objective sympathy for the bereaved. She was aware of a colleague in scrubs at the periphery of her vision, and wished the woman would go away. John stood in the background, his eyes downcast after one agonised look at Greg.

She began to think that he might have been right. Greg's face wasn't…_him_. The features, the hair – all were the same, but this blank mask lacked what she thought of as his essential 'Greg-ness'. The world-weary expression, the underlying humour, the calmness in the fact of chaos, the warmth in those dark eyes…all absent. Dead.

His face was surprisingly unmarked. Just that small neat hole in his forehead. She knew that the top of his skull would be cut open very soon, so the pathologist would be able to trace the route the bullet had taken through his brain, and provide the evidence the investigators would be seeking regarding manufacture, angle and trajectory. His hair was wet and slicked back from the chemicals that had been used to clean away the blood preparatory to the autopsy, but her hand went up automatically as if to ruffle his grey hair into spikes. It was something she had done from time to time, usually just before hugging him goodbye or kissing his cheek; in fact, it had become something of a private joke between them, with him batting her hand away in feigned annoyance.

Her eyes stung as she realised that she would _never_, _ever_ again, get to demonstrate that tiny gesture of affection.

She leaned over him, ignoring the acrid chemical smell and whispered, for his unhearing ears alone.

"Goodbye, Greg. I'm so, _so_ sorry for letting you down… I – I love you. I don't think I ever said that, but..."

She paused, trying to find the words for what Greg Lestrade had come to mean to her – best friend? brother? - before giving up. He'd know anyway, whether she found the right words or not. She found herself breathing a fervent prayer that there _was_ a heaven, despite all the scientific evidence to the contrary. If there was, it'd have to involve sunshine and palm trees swaying in the breeze and a hammock and a cold beer…just for Greg. Nothing else would do.

She pressed a gentle kiss to his cold cheek, lingering for a moment. And then she straightened up and turned away, walking past John without even looking at him.

* * *

She gave her statement in the late afternoon, reliving the moment of Greg's death in excruciatingly slow detail. She spent some time trying – and failing – to recall a single detail about the man in the doorway. She could only recall indistinct impressions – tall, suit, dark-haired, clean-shaven. From the resigned expression on the interviewing officer's face, she got the impression that she hadn't been the only witness unable to describe him.

Wearily and uncaring of the need for further secrecy, she stumbled out a disjointed account of the full story – the texted threat, Mycroft's ruse to keep Greg safe, and how it had all gone wrong. The look on the DI's face suggested he didn't know whether to believe her, although he was surprisingly gentle in his interrogation, giving her the occasional worried look. The story was too convoluted to try to explain to a stranger, especially when she felt so wrung out and numb. Her head ached as she continued her rambling explanation, and she wished she was being interviewed by someone who knew Sherlock and would understand without further words. He was the same unfamiliar DI that she had seen at the scene.

After a while, much to her relief, the door opened and Ian Dimmock entered. He glanced at her and spoke quietly in the DI's ear before leaving the room again. After this, the interview was wrapped up very quickly and a short time later Molly was presented with a copy of her statement to sign.

She was led out of the interview room. John was standing nearby talking to Dimmock and two other officers. They looked in her direction and then John walked over, touching her arm a little cautiously.

"I'll explain it all to them. Don't worry anymore." His eyes looked her up and down, assessing. "Mary's coming to pick you up and take you to Baker Street – or home if you prefer."

"I – I _can't_." The thought of going home, of doing ordinary domestic things like making a cup of tea, seemed _impossible_. Some form of dull anger that she didn't really understand seemed to take control of her emotions. How _dare _he try to tell her what to do! He didn't understand – none of them understood how she felt…

She pulled herself up to her full height and gave him a cold look. "I don't need to go home and I don't need Mary's help – or yours for that matter. I'm going back to the mortuary to look at the preliminary findings from the autopsy. It might give us some clues."

"_Molly_!" She had turned away from him, but John grabbed her shoulders firmly and propelled her down the corridor, away from the officers' curious gaze. His hands gripped so hard that they hurt as he pushed her into an empty locker room.

"Have you _seen _yourself?" He turned her so she could see her reflection in a dirty mirror on the wall. "You look like you're about to collapse. You _can't_ go back to Bart's right now - you _need_ some rest. You're still recovering from a head injury – you shouldn't have been out in the first place."

She looked at her reflection, noting the stark white face that stared back at her - the dark circles under her eyes, the cuts and bruises, the heavily bandaged arm. She'd completely forgotten about her injuries from the bomb on the previous day, but as she noted them, she began to feel various aches and pains once more. It was no longer a surprise that the unfamiliar DI had kept giving her concerned looks.

John seemed almost angry as he looked over her shoulder into the mirror, but as she turned to look up at him, she could see that the reflection had distorted reality. John's face was grim and strained and sad, but he was not _angry _– at least, not with _her_. His face softened as he gazed at her.

"I know how you feel. I cared about him too."

It was on the tip of her tongue to say that he didn't know _at all_, but he seemed to understand what she was thinking. He went on, very quietly.

"I _do_ know. Remember, I know what it's like to see someone you love die. Even if in that case, it wasn't real, it _felt_ real at the time. Right now, you're in shock. You need someone to look after you – someone to make you a cup of tea and let you have a good cry so you can get some sleep." He smiled at her sadly, his eyes very soft. "_Please_, Molly. Let Mary take you back to Baker Street, so that Mrs. Hudson can make a fuss of you. I'll come back as soon as I can, and we'll all sit and talk… and remember Greg the way he'd want us to."

"Oh, _John_…" He held her, rubbing her back soothingly as she wept into his shoulder once more. "I can't believe he's gone. He was – he was like -."

But she couldn't convey all that Greg had meant to her. But John seemed to understand without further words.

* * *

"_Molly_!"

She stopped in the entrance to New Scotland Yard, feeling oddly disengaged as Sherlock strode up the road towards her, coat billowing around him.

He grabbed her shoulders, staring down at her face. His own was starkly white, his eyes glittering oddly – almost fiercely.

"What did the gun look like?"

"_What_?" She was shaken out of her daze, both literally and figuratively as he spun her around, still holding her shoulders.

"The _gun_! You were there – you _must_ have seen it. Or the sound it made, can you describe it? What about the man? Come _on_, Molly." He gave her an impatient shake. "There must be _something_ you can remember – something _different_ about him – something that can actually _help_."

She ran her eyes over him dispassionately. It was probably the first time she had ever _really_ observed him while her thoughts were elsewhere. She noticed the gaunt angularity of his body, the oddly made face with its collection of features that didn't seem to possess any symmetry. She noticed the full mouth – had she really never _seen_ just how hard it was? – and those odd eyes, glittering cold-blue with some kind of strong emotion that looked an awful lot like excitement.

And she felt the slow anger rising in her. A hard knot of fury and disgust that stuck in her gullet and made it hard to breathe.

A harsh laugh escaped her. "Help? _Who_? _Greg_? A bit late for that, isn't it?"

He paused, looking at her face, his expression suddenly wary. His hands dropped from her shoulders. "I _mean_ to find his killer. Whatever it takes. I can promise you that."

"Yes, and you _promised_ me he'd be _safe_. You and that _bloody_ useless brother of yours." She jerked her head to the side, as if indicating an invisible Mycroft. "Where the _hell _was he? I texted him – he said he'd _be_ there! Just _one_ thing the two of you had to do – and you _failed _him. You _failed_ my best friend."

He didn't reply, simply looking at her, his face blank. She couldn't tell whether he was confused or merely realised that there was no point trying to deny it.

She felt her own face twist and turned it away from him, repressing the sob that threatened to emerge. "But _that_ wouldn't matter – I mean, it's appalling and horrific and I will _never_ trust you with anyone's safety _ever again_… But it wouldn't signify if only I could believe that you _genuinely_ cared about the fact that _Greg_ is lying on a cold slab in Bart's mortuary tonight. _Remember him – Greg Lestrade_? The man who looked out for you – the man who gave you a second chance when you were just another worthless junkie that he could have thrown into jail. The man who _cared_ about you?" She shook her head furiously. "If I thought you gave a _single damn _about him, then I could just about forgive you. But you _don't_ – do you? You never did. You – you just – it's just all about the _case_ for you, isn't it?"

"I can't do anything else for him now. Only find his killer." His voice was level and matter of fact, but as she looked at him, there was that strange cold glitter in his eyes.

She closed her eyes, suddenly unable to look at him. "Yes, of course. That's all you can _ever_ do, isn't it, Sherlock?"

"What else _is_ there?" He put his hand on her arm. "Molly –."

She tore her arm away. "You _could_ have said you were sorry about Greg – and actually meant it. You _could_ have asked if I was alright."

"Would it have _really_ helped you if I had started trotting out the usual clichés?" His voice was tight, unapologetic. "I _knew _you were alright, because John has been keeping me informed throughout the day. And how would telling you that I'm sorry about Lestrade actually _help_ you – or him?"

The knowing look in his eyes was too much to bear. If she'd been less angry, she might have acknowledged that he was probably right. Even John had been treating her with a kind of brisk kindness all day – not attempting to insult her with expressions of sorrow that would have just made her feel worse.

"You could have rung _me_ though, Sherlock! All day I've had to deal with this, without a single phone call or message of support."

"Why would you think I _didn't _try to call?" He sounded confused.

"I -," she stopped, realising that she hadn't even taken her mobile out of her bag since the shooting.

She sighed. "I – I can't deal with this right now. I need to go home. And I can't help you anyway, Sherlock, because I don't remember a _thing_ about his killer. Not a _damn thing_. So, you see, I can't be any help at all, to you _or_ Greg… I failed him too..." Her voice broke and she stopped, taking a shuddering breath.

He shook his head vigorously, not seeming to pay any attention to her last words. "There's always _something_, Molly. You just have to use your brain the right way. You're currently over-emotional and it's affecting your memory of the event. If you want to help, you need to calm down and _think_."

She stared at him in disbelief for a moment before enunciating, slowly and very carefully. "_Fuck_. _You_."

She had the bitter pleasure of seeing his mouth fall open in genuine shock at the unexpected obscenity.

Turning away, she saw Mary standing on the kerb nearby, her mouth an O of astonishment. Molly marched past her in the direction of her car, which was parked further up the street.

"I don't want to go to Baker Street. Take me home," she ordered, as they got into the car.

"But I thought John said -."

"Actually, right now I don't give a _shit _what John said. No offence, but I want to go home – to _my_ home." She pulled out her mobile and stared at the screen, noting the missed calls and unanswered texts before putting it back in her bag. "And I want to be left alone."

She refused to look back, so she had no idea whether Sherlock watched them leave or not.

* * *

That hard little knot of fury hadn't dissipated by the next day, but that was a good thing. The anger helped her get through the next few days, giving her body the fuel it needed to get out of bed each day and do what needed to be done. There were further statements to give and endless photographs to look at to see if she could identify the killer. She was taken back to the café for a re-enactment to see if it would help to jog her memory. It didn't.

Each night, as she struggled to go to sleep, she would toss and turn in bed, remembering that moment. Not the man or the gun – her memory was still blank on them – but that little _bang_ and the life seeping out of Greg's eyes. His eyes in particular haunted her – the _expression_ in them as the bullet entered his brain… Was it surprise…or fear…or even just acceptance? Over and over…the image danced in front of her eyes as she lay sleepless, staring at the ceiling.

She didn't attempt to contact Sherlock, and he made no further attempts to get in touch. She wasn't entirely sure how she felt. His behaviour had disgusted her – she was no fool and knew that Sherlock generally got through his cases by turning his emotions off, but how could he have been so unaffected by _Greg_, of all people? She missed him acutely, but she wasn't sure how to resolve the problem – and part of her didn't even want to try.

John came to see her several times, his face more strained each time he saw her. She thought he might prescribe sleeping pills to help her, but he refused, which seemed utterly unreasonable. It was only later than she realised why he hadn't wanted her to have a jar of pills. He continued to ask her to move into Baker Street, at least until the funeral, but she refused.

After all the weeping she had done on the day itself, she found it surprisingly hard to cry. It might have been easier if she _had_ been able to, but she remained dry-eyed and numb with misery. And the little hot knot of hatred in her heart grew harder and harder. Her emotions were all over the place – on some days she could hardly bring herself to move, but on other days, a sharp fury at the world in general forced her out of the flat. She would walk energetically along the streets for hours, never with a goal in mind, just striding and striding, trying to leave everything behind her. She would go home feeling exhausted, but never enough to sleep deeply, although she would drop off for a couple of hours every now and then.

"It will pass," was all that John could tell her when she confided in him, fearing that she would go mad. "It's a normal stage in the grief process. It will get better."

"I don't know what to do," she admitted. "I'm so afraid of – of _myself_. I – I feel that I'm behaving badly, but I just can't seem to stop it. I'm so _angry_, John."

"With _Sherlock_? Only that's the way it seems – and I'm not quite sure why."

She paused, considering. She had since read the texts and listened to the messages that Sherlock had left on her phone, increasingly worried in tone, and realised that he _had_ been thinking of her and that she'd been unfair on him concerning that point at least.

"I just – I _know_ it's probably not his fault what happened to Greg. It's Mycroft I should blame really. I _do_ blame Mycroft."

"I'm told that his men nearly made it," John said, quietly. "They would have done, but there was an accident on the way and the car was gridlocked. They had to get out and run…but they were too late. They were at the end of the street when…it happened. Even so, I believe Mycroft blames himself. He wasn't free when he got your message, otherwise he would have come in person, and he believes he would have been quicker… You know -," he added after a long pause, "- Sherlock really _did_ care about Greg. A lot more than he ever acknowledged."

She laughed bitterly. "He did a good job of hiding it."

"Well, why else would Moriarty have targeted Greg alongside me and Mrs. H.?"

"I don't know, John." She was suddenly weary of the whole topic.

"He's really worried about you," he went on, pleading her with his eyes, but she turned her head away, not wanting to hear it.

Greg's funeral was another trial. His ex-wife had made all the arrangements and sat at the front as the chief mourner, weeping on and off throughout the ceremony. Molly, sitting further back with John, Mary, Eleanor and Mrs. Hudson, stared at the woman who had made Greg so unhappy and hated her with a passion.

Sherlock wasn't there. Molly had been half-dreading seeing him again but was shocked when he didn't appear.

John sighed as she raised a meaningful eyebrow at him. "You know Sherlock. He hates ceremony at the best of times, and he would despise this – this _falseness_."

She knew what he meant. She hated the hymns and the Bible readings ever more than she hated his ex-wife. Greg had never been a religious man, as far as Molly knew, and she was sure he wouldn't have wanted to be remembered this way. A brief secular service followed by a commemorative drink at his favourite pub would have suited him far better.

The Met was well-represented by the mourners. Molly saw Sally rubbing furiously at her eyes, and couldn't help feeling that the usually hard woman's emotions were far more genuine that the ostentatious display of grief by his ex-wife. Anderson was there, sitting with the Met officers and apparently accepted by them, even though he'd voluntarily left the force out of guilt for his role in Sherlock's fall from grace.

As she left the crematorium with Mary and Ellie, Molly noticed a familiar figure in a black suit with the inevitable umbrella, walking away from them. She hadn't realised that Mycroft had been there before, so he must have been sitting right at the back of the chapel during the service. He cut an oddly lonely figure, walking back across the muddy grass to the carpark.

"What on earth is _he_ doing here?"

"Well, I suppose he came to pay his respects," Mary replied, after a pause. "After all, he knew Greg for years – much longer than any of us."

"But he _hated_ Greg!" Even as she said it, she realised this was not entirely fair. She had no real reason to suppose that Mycroft hadn't _liked_ Greg, simply because they had clashed over Sherlock. If she were honest, she'd only ever accepted Greg's interpretation, and yet whenever she had seen them together, Mycroft had always been perfectly polite and courteous to Greg.

"I think -," Mary said, cautiously. "Actually…I think the _opposite_ might be nearer to the truth."

"What? You mean, you think that Mycroft – um – _liked_ Greg?"

Mary hesitated again. "I rather think he was in love with him, even if he may not have quite realised it."

There was a silence while Molly absorbed this.

"It does make an odd kind of twisted sense if you think about it," Mary pointed out.

"But – but Greg was _straight_," Molly burst out in confusion.

"Yes, I think Mycroft probably _knew _that," Mary replied, drily. "You don't _stop_ loving someone just because there's never any possibility that they would return your feelings. And – well, Mycroft doesn't really come across as emotionally mature, does he? I can imagine him admiring from afar for years without really doing anything about it."

Molly stared at Mycroft's retreating figure. Insofar as she'd ever considered Sherlock's older brother in sexual terms, she'd always assumed that he was in some way asexual, or at least uninterested in human relationships due to the nature of his work. And then there had been his comment to Sherlock about caring not being an advantage. And yet…if Mary was right, Mycroft _had_ cared all along and had kept his feelings carefully hidden away. Memories came to her – Mycroft's surprising degree of respect for Greg's senior position; his polite offer of a lift home to Greg the night that Sherrinford turned up; his willingness to spirit Greg away to a place of safety. Poor Mycroft – if it were true.

They lingered on the grass waiting for John and Mrs. Hudson. The warm-hearted landlady had wanted to see Greg's ex-wife to offer her condolences, and for some reason, John had insisted on staying with her. Molly could see him hovering at her back, casting sharp looks at the people around him.

The day had dawned reasonably bright for the funeral, but ominous dark clouds had since gathered and a fine mist of rain had started to fall. The Watsons and Mrs. Hudson had walked to the crematorium as it was only fifteen minutes' walk from Baker Street. As Sherlock wasn't with them, Molly planned to walk part of the way back with them before getting the Tube.

Mary was struggling with Eleanor's pram on the wet grass – a large, Victorian-style creation with a bewildering number of wheels. She rolled her eyes at Molly, who had been assuming it was some old thing that Mrs. Hudson had dragged out.

"Believe it or not, it's the most expensive model available at Selfridges right now. Mycroft again – or Anthea, anyway. You can tell that _she's_ not a mother. If she was, we'd have something sensible – and easy to fold up. Not that I'm not grateful, but until the insurance comes through…"

She broke off and started adjusting the waterproof hood to protect Ellie against the rain that was falling more rapidly now. Molly shivered and pulled her coat more tightly around her. It was a huge mackintosh that had once belonged to Greg. He'd lent it to her once, laughing at the way that it swamped her, almost down to her ankles. Somehow she'd never got around to giving it back. She didn't always wear it, but it had seemed appropriate today.

There was a tap on her arm. She looked around to see DI David Renner, the detective inspector who had been brought in from Kent Constabulary to deal with Greg's murder. He nodded at her, diffidently.

"I'm sorry to bother you on such a difficult day, but we've had a new witness come forward. He's provided a much stronger image of the suspect, and I wonder if you could take a look to see if it jogs any memories." He saw the look on her face and shrugged. "I know it's frustrating when we keep calling on you, but we really do think we're onto something this time. It won't take long, and I can give you a lift there and then home again."

Molly suppressed her sigh. He was a good man and was obviously trying his best, but if even_ Sherlock_ was stumped, she doubted if this outsider could do much good. John had confided in her that Sherlock was sure the man had been just a 'gun for hire'. He was giving greater priority to finding the woman related to Moriarty that he was certain was the brains behind the murder. He'd returned to Ireland after a couple of days to track down the information he'd needed on Moriarty's background, but the criminal mastermind certainly hadn't made it easy. Sherlock had returned frustrated, but with a few additional leads that he was now looking into.

She nodded at Renner. "Sure, OK, if you think it'll help."

She gave Mary an apologetic little smile before turning away. John and Mrs. Hudson were approaching them, but John appeared to notice that Molly was about to leave and he ran ahead to intercept her.

"Sherlock had another text this morning," he breathed into her ear. "That's part of the reason why he's not here. He's onto something – he's sure he's got a breakthrough and he's determined to solve it before the next hit."

She suddenly felt as cold as ice. "Mrs. Hudson?"

He nodded. "He thinks so. The significant word was 'smite'."

"But – but, then why is she _here_!" She looked over her shoulder at Mrs. Hudson. "Shouldn't she be safe at home?"

John grimaced. "She doesn't know. We haven't yet told her why it isn't safe for her to be out alone. But Sherlock is positive there's no sniper this time – the text he received doesn't suggest it. And I'm not leaving her alone until we're safely back at Baker Street."

At that moment, Mrs. Hudson joined them, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. "Oh, I _do_ hate funerals. And this horrible weather…it reminds me of when we buried my first husband. That was a sunny day too, at first, so we were in our summer suits. And then the rain started to fall when we got to the grave, just like now…"

She shivered, small and fragile and birdlike in her best dress and coat. It was just a short light jacket, useless protection against the rain that was starting to fall more heavily.

"Here." Molly shrugged out of her long raincoat. "Take this, or you'll get soaked through on the way home."

"Really? Oh, I _couldn't_, dear. What will you wear?"

"I'll be fine." She was wearing a suit jacket and besides which, she was about to get into Renner's car. "I can pick it up from you some time."

"Well, if you're quite certain…" Before she could protest any more, Mrs. Hudson was bundled into Molly's coat by Mary, who was clearly keen to get Eleanor out of the rain.

Molly glanced back once on the way to Renner's car. John and Mary flanked Mrs. Hudson in a protective manner. None of them were particularly tall, but the landlady was significantly shorter and absolutely swamped by Greg's coat.

It seemed to Molly that Mrs. Hudson was made indistinct and less then entirely solid by the distance and the rain impeding her vision. She shivered violently, suddenly terribly afraid for the little woman, before turning away again.


	34. Chapter 34

**Slightly shorter chapter - it was one of those that threatened to be ridiculously long, so I've broken it into two parts. The other to follow fairly soon - I hope! Thanks for your lovely reviews, including the guest ones that I can't answer directly.**

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**Chapter 34**

Molly's latest visit to the Met was no more successful than previously. The mugshot generated by the new witness's interpretation of the murderer was generic enough to apply to any number of thirty-something, tall, dark-haired males, and she couldn't help wondering why on earth Renner had expected it to nudge her memory any further.

She suspected that it was more of an excuse for him to question her again. She could tell that he still didn't entirely accept her version of events – in particular, he kept questioning why they had just sat and waited instead of finding an alternative exit out of the cafe. _Why_, he asked, would an officer as experienced as Greg _not_ take sensible action to protect his own life?

She found it hard to explain the power of Mycroft's influence – and precisely _why_ even a hardened senior Met officer like Greg would sit and wait, simply on the orders of a shadowy civil servant. Who _was_ this Mycroft anyway, she could see him thinking – who was _he_ to order a police officer around? Renner's eyes told her that he didn't buy the notion that Greg genuinely realised he was in danger. And, if that was the case, how could he believe her when she said she _had_ told Greg about the danger he was in? Wasn't it at least possible that she might actually have been distracting him with coffee while the assassin approached them?

Her head was almost splitting from a tension headache by the time he let her go. Glancing at her watch as she left the building, she was shocked to see it was nearly half past three.

She paused, trying to decide what to do. Her medical leave following the bomb was officially up and she had been planning on going to a staff team meeting this afternoon just to catch up before returning to work properly tomorrow, but thanks to Renner she had missed that. In the end, she decided to go in anyway – she could still see Mike and check the rota for the week.

After seeing Mike, she'd popped along to the medical school to see a tutor about her current study module and had sat in the library for a while, more to get her scattered thoughts together than to get any serious study done. She was just leaving again at six-thirty when her phone rang.

"Molly?" It was John, his voice sounding strained. "Are you alright? Something's happened -."

She stopped dead, her gut clenching. "It's Mrs. Hudson, isn't it?"

There was a pause before he responded, sounding wary. "How did you know that?"

"I – I _didn't_ for certain, I just…had a bad feeling this morning. Oh _God_ -," she raised a shaking hand to her mouth. "What happened? Is she – is she -?"

"She's OK," he said quickly, seeming to guess what she was thinking. "Well _no_, she's _not_ OK, not really, but she's going to be…I _think_. Sometimes with an older person, they can go downhill very quickly -."

"_John_! What's happened?"

"We were -," he stopped, clearing his throat noisily. "We - um - had just got back to the flat. Mary got Ellie out of the pram and opened the door, and she could hear the phone ringing upstairs, so she ran up to answer it. I was trying to sort out that bloody pram when she called down the stairs to say it was for me." He paused and she could hear him swallowing down the line before continuing, his voice hoarse. "I didn't give it a _thought_. I'd already got the pram through the front door and Mrs. Hudson said to leave it with her – she could store it under the stairs. I don't even remember noticing whether the front door had closed behind us, but I suppose it couldn't have done, because it was open when she was found. She was lying on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, right outside her flat… She'd been hit over the back of the head and knocked unconscious." He paused before going on, sounding utterly broken. "Just lying there, almost completely covered by your coat."

"Greg's coat," she said automatically, without thinking.

"What?" He sounded confused. "Well, we're at St. Mary's. She's been assessed – it's a very nasty bump but they don't think there's any internal bleeding. It could have been so much worse. They're keeping her in for observation, though." He paused again. "She also has a suspected wrist fracture – they think it's possible that she heard her attacker just before he struck and was able to dodge the blow to some extent, otherwise it would have been a lot worse. She fell awkwardly with her arm underneath her."

"Oh John, I'm so sorry." She shivered violently, remembering the awful premonition she had had when she'd watched the old lady walk away at the crematorium.

There was a pause before his voice came again, very quiet. "I just feel so _stupid_. How could I have fallen for it? There was no one on the line, of course. Just a trick to get me out of the way."

She opened her mouth and then closed it again, not sure how to comfort him. In the end, she simply asked: "What can I do? Do you want me there?"

He sounded relieved. "You wouldn't _mind_ coming here? I don't like to leave her, but Mary's at home alone with Ellie and I really don't like to leave them too long -."

"That's quite alright, don't worry," she interrupted. "I was just leaving Bart's. Is there anything I can bring her, do you know?"

From the pause, she could tell he hadn't given it a thought. "Mary can take her things in tomorrow, I expect. I just don't want her to be alone this evening. Not until we can contact her family."

"_Does_ she have a family?" Molly half wondered whether Mrs. Hudson wouldn't actually consider _Sherlock_ family more than anyone else. She certainly acted like a doting mother. With a sharply painful pang that was becoming familiar, she wondered where Sherlock was. Off on his investigations, no doubt. He probably didn't even know what had happened, unless John had texted him.

"A sister somewhere in Kent. I've got her key, so I'll pop in and try to get a contact number. She's still a bit woozy and upset at the moment, so I don't want to bother her asking for details."

Suspecting that there were things that Mrs. Hudson _could_ do with before tomorrow, Molly popped into Boots on the way and stocked up on basic toiletries, eau de cologne in the landlady's favourite scent and some flowers. When she arrived, Mrs. Hudson had been x-rayed, had a plaster cast applied to her wrist and been admitted to a room in the private wing, with an anonymous security guard standing outside. Mycroft's work, of course.

John, looking pale and worried, had dashed off almost immediately she arrived. He'd been informed that Mycroft was moving Mary and Ellie out of Baker Street to a high-security apartment. Molly was a little surprised that they were prepared to acquiesce with Mycroft's high-handed actions, but she supposed it was different when you had a baby to protect. Anyway, he'd begged Molly to stay with Mrs. Hudson as long as possible and to ring him if there was any change in her condition.

Mrs. Hudson was sleeping off her painkillers when she went in, so she unpacked the toiletries, arranged the flowers and sat down, preparing herself for a long wait. The private wing overlooked the Regent's Canal basin, so she sat by the window watching the boats manoeuvring and the pedestrians below coming and going along the tow path as the sky darkened and the lights went on, twinkling in the black water.

Eventually, Mrs. Hudson began to stir, and she got up and went over to the bed. The old lady's face was chalk-white and her heart clenched at the sight. Sherlock's landlady was normally such a little ball of industrious energy that it was easy to forget her age. Right now, she looked very frail and Molly could understand John's worry about possible deterioration.

She gazed at the woman's wrinkled face, noting the lines of strain about the eyes and mouth. She'd only ever known Sherlock's landlady as a twittering, rather nervous, but fundamentally kind-hearted woman, and as she stood there she reflected on how strange it was that one could be acquainted with someone for years, count them as a friend even, and yet know so little about their background.

Even Greg… She suppressed a sigh as her thoughts turned to him once more, as they so often did now. How well had she really known _his_ background? And yet he'd been her best friend for the last few years – perhaps the closest friend she'd ever had. She supposed it was possible to love someone without expecting anything of them. She'd accepted Greg utterly, exactly as he was, faults and all. She had loved him, in a purely platonic way, completely unselfishly.

She thought she'd loved Sherlock unselfishly too. Why, then, was it suddenly so difficult to accept him and simply love him the way he was? Why did it hurt so much that he appeared to care about Greg so little? She couldn't have been under any illusion about that, surely, judging by the way he'd treated the DI over the years.

Mrs Hudson's eyes opened and took in Molly, a little blankly it seemed to her, before speaking. "Oh, _hello, _dear. How nice of you to come!"

"That's alright," she said, cautiously, wondering whether the old lady even knew who she was. "I brought you a few things. And John says you're not to worry about anything."

Mrs. Hudson's eyes widened, and Molly saw the moment that a fuller awareness came into them. "Oh – oh _dear_!" Her face crumpled – in pain or distress, perhaps both – and Molly pressed the call button and took her uninjured hand in an attempt at reassurance.

"It's OK, Mrs. Hudson," she soothed. "You're perfectly safe and you're going to be fine. You mustn't get upset."

"Oh – but that man! He – he hit me…" She was visibly distressed and Molly fumbled for a tissue, expecting her to start crying, but to her surprise, Mrs. Hudson's face suddenly hardened. "How _dare_ he attack me and threaten Sherlock! If only I'd seen him coming, I would have told him straight! I won't stand for it! No one threatens my boy and gets away with it!"

And now there were tears in her eyes and she wiped them away almost savagely. Molly gaped at the old lady's unbelievable bravery, but before she could say anything else, the staff she had summoned were now coming in.

Molly stood back politely while the on-call registrar assessed Mrs. Hudson's cognition levels and reflexes before professing himself satisfied with her condition and prescribing some more pain killers. As soon as the nurse had administered the drugs and left the room, she asked, curiously, "You said he threatened Sherlock?"

"What, dear? Oh -," the woman seemed a bit flummoxed for a moment. "Well, _no_, he didn't say anything to _me_. I only got a brief glimpse, not even that really. There was a policeman here – nice young man, but I couldn't tell him anything except that the man was tall and dark-haired… But they _always_ want to threaten Sherlock," she added, darkly. "It happened to me before, and I foxed them _then_ too. I'd _never_ betray my boy."

"I can well believe it," Molly said, with genuine admiration. "Can I get you some water?"

Mrs. Hudson gave a jerky nod, and Molly filled her glass before turning away to the sink to re-fill the jug. The old lady was very quiet and as Molly turned back, she saw the tears rolling down her papery cheeks.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson! _Please_ – don't cry!" She put down the jug and hurried over to sit on the edge of the bed. "I know it must have been terrifying, but you'll get better, and they'll catch that man. There's a guard on the door and we won't leave you alone, I _promise_."

"It's not _that_," the landlady choked out. "I'm not afraid of that _coward_ – attacking a small defenceless woman from behind. I've known worse in my time – you don't live through the London blitz without seeing some sights, you know. I was only a little girl back then, but I got through…"

She paused to wipe her eyes while Molly watched her anxiously. "Sherlock's alright, you know. They didn't get to him." She didn't quite know what made her say that, since she had no idea if he was alright or not. A little knot of anxiety formed in her stomach at the thought.

Mrs. Hudson gave her a faint smile. "I _know_ he is. That boy will always be fine. He's missed you these last few days, you know. He'll never say anything, but I see it in his eyes. I _know_. I know him better than anyone. Probably even better than his mum. And you know what they say – a boy can't hide anything from his mum, no matter how old he gets. He loves you, Molly." She paused, frowning at Molly as if something had only just occurred to her. "Why did you stop coming over? Have you fallen out with him?"

Molly squirmed a little under her sharp-eyed scrutiny. "I haven't exactly…"

"Ah well." Mrs. Hudson seemed to dismiss it. "Lover's quarrels, I suppose. Well, he hasn't been right since poor Detective Lestrade died. I don't think he realised how much he cared about that man until it was too late."

She sniffed. Molly watched her in silence as she carried on. "That's the main trouble with that boy. Doesn't know how to cope with his emotions, so he takes refuge in work. He's convinced he can't be any kind of comfort to anyone, so he just focuses on what he knows he's best at. Since the inspector died, he's hardly slept. He's been coming and going all times of the night, and he's up there at night pacing the floor. I _know_ – I hear him." She blew her nose before going on. "The last time he was like that was just before he jumped off that building. He was _worried_, you see. Worried about what would happen to poor John… And even _before_ he knew John…" She trailed off.

"What about before John, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Call me Martha, dear," the old lady replied. She leaned back against her pillows, looking old and weary. "I don't know if I can keep on like this, you know. I would never turn my back on my boy, but what with all the comings and goings, and then that man today, I…" She sighed, fiddling with her crumpled tissue. "My sisters keeps going on at me to give up the London house and move in with her. She lives right out in the country, and she's by herself too now, in a house that's far too big for just one person, and so…"

"She might be right," Molly said, gently. How old was Mrs. Hudson? Surely, at some point in her life, she'd be better off living somewhere a little quieter? But what would that mean for Sherlock? He loved 221B and she couldn't imagine him living anywhere else now.

"But how could I leave my boy? He needs me!" The landlady's lips trembled. "I know you all think I'm just some silly old thing, but he _needs _me. He doesn't show it, he never has, but I remember…"

"Yes? You remember _what_, Mrs. – Martha?"

The old lady closed her eyes for a moment. "Not long after I first met him, he moved into the flat."

"Yes – that was when he met John -."

The old lady shook her head. "No, no, that was _before_. Mycroft paid his rent at first, you see. I think he wanted to get Sherlock away from some place he'd been living in where there were some…temptations. _You_ know what I mean. And Sherlock let him because it was easier than arguing." She smiled. "He said to me once, if Mycroft wants to waste his money trying to save me, who am I to stop him? But then they fell out. Mycroft was always chasing after him to help out with some government-related case, and sometimes Sherlock _would_ if it interested him enough. Other times, he refused. And eventually Mycroft got angry and stopped paying the rent." She sighed, the smile dropping off her face. "I would have let him stay on without paying if I could have, except I needed that rent. But I couldn't bring myself to let it to anyone else. And he left some of his things there – he said he'd be back for them when he'd found somewhere to live. And as it turned out, he met John a few days' later, so he moved straight back in.

"But anyway, when Sherlock was _first _there, long before John, Mr. Lestrade had a nasty accident. A hit-and-run, it was. He had to have an emergency operation – internal bleeding, I think. And a badly broken leg. He was off work for a good few months, I believe."

"I – I didn't know that," Molly ventured, a little shaken. How could she have never known something as big as _that_ about Greg? He hated looking weak, though, and she could imagine how frustrated he must have been during his months of convalescence.

"They'd had a _terrible_ argument the previous night. Mr. Lestrade went out shouting and slamming the door. And Sherlock was up there playing his violin half the night, making a complete _racket_! I don't think I got a wink of sleep all night. And then, the next morning, one of the police officers came around, wanting to know whether Mr. Lestrade had been here the previous night and what time he had left. And Sherlock came down the stairs at that moment and asked them what had happened. He seemed to _know_ it was something to do with Mr. Lestrade. And when they told him – _well_. His face went completely blank and he simply turned away and went back up the stairs."

She sighed. "I don't like to imagine what the officer thought of _that_. It was that Sally Donovan, you know. Never liked that girl. I remember she muttered under her breath and glared at him as he walked away. She didn't think he cared – didn't think he was capable of it. But, I tell you, that boy _cared_. He didn't rest until he tracked down that hit-and-run driver and they tell me he got a good punch or two in before the man was arrested. And he paced up and down at nights, just the same as now. And whenever I went up there with a cup of tea for him, he was going through all the cold case files that Mr. Lestrade had left for him – he kept working through those files for _weeks_." She shook her head. "I think he solved more cases during that time than he ever did before or since. See – he _did_ care about poor Mr. Lestrade, whatever that bossy little madam from the Met thought. Just like he cares now."

She wiped her eyes again. "It just breaks my heart to see him the way he is. I see his face and I _know_ how much it hurts him. He _loved_ Mr. Lestrade, as near as he could come to it. And a jolly sight more than he ever loved his brother."

Molly's heart was beating far too fast. An image came to her – Sherlock's face the night Greg died – the stark white face – the eyes glittering with…_what_? She had thought some kind of sadistic obsession with the crime…but what if she had been wrong?

She shook herself, trying to refocus her thoughts. "Mrs. Hud – _Martha _\- can you remember anything else about the man who attacked you? Anything about what he looked like or was wearing?"

The old lady shook her head, wearily. "Just an impression, that's all. And then the next thing I remember is the ambulance. I don't even know who found me. I suppose it must have been John as he was right there with me when they -."

The door opened and a nurse beckoned to Molly. "Visiting hours are over," she whispered.

Molly rose. Bending over, she kissed Mrs. Hudson's wrinkly cheek. "Please don't worry anymore. It's going to be fine."

"Is it?" Mrs. Hudson's watery eyes looked up at her. "I hope so. Oh, I do hope so."

She smiled, not trusting her voice any further as she left the room. Her mind was racing; she was hardly aware of the guard outside the door or the direction in which her feet took her, until she was standing on the road outside the hospital.

With shaking hands, she pulled out her phone. John answered after the first ring.

"John? It's OK, Mrs. Hudson is fine. They made me leave. Are you at home – Baker Street, I mean?"

"No. I popped in to get Mrs. Hudson's address book, but Mycroft's people wouldn't let me stay too long. I needn't have bothered, since Mycroft already had her sister's contact details – _naturally_. She's coming up tomorrow morning to stay until Mrs. Hudson is recovered; Mycroft's putting her up in a hotel. Meanwhile, _we're_ holed up in a posh penthouse, somewhere in Pimlico. Guards everywhere. I've no idea if I'll be able to get down to the surgery tomorrow. Mary's a bit wide-eyed though – can't take her eyes off the décor."

"OK…" She thought quickly, a certain suspicion beginning to form in her mind. "John, was it _you_ who found Mrs. Hudson?"

"Me? No – it was Sherlock. Could have only been a couple of minutes after it happened, because as soon as I realised the phone line was dead, I knew it had been a trick and I rushed back down the stairs again. But Sherlock had just come back and was bending over her. He was the one who pulled the coat off her. He must have quite literally passed her attacker in the street outside." John paused. "His face was incredibly pale – I thought he was going into shock. He just kept mouthing something that I couldn't hear. A word – a name, maybe. And then he ran off down the street when the ambulance arrived. I didn't see where he went and he hadn't returned when I got back."

"Oh _God_." She put her hand over her mouth in sudden realisation. "Greg's _coat_…"

"What about it?"

"John, the _coat_ she was wearing! You said she was covered by it. Don't you _see_? He's only ever seen _me_ wear it before. For a moment, before he uncovered her, Sherlock must have thought it was _me_ lying in the hallway!"

There was a pause on the phone as John evidently considered this. "You could be right," he said eventually. "Now I think about it, it may have been your name he was muttering. And he really was as white as a sheet – I don't think I've ever seen him look so shocked. He was staring at Mrs. Hudson, but he didn't seem to be _seeing_ her properly."

"John," she said, quietly. "I've been such a fool, haven't I?"

"Maybe just a little," he said, equally quietly. "But you've had a rough few days, Molly. You're grieving. Don't be so hard on yourself."

"No, but – oh, poor _Sherlock_." She felt tears prickling her eyes. "I have to find him – _now_."


	35. Chapter 35

**Phew. This was one of those chapters that had about 4 full drafts and altered considerably in mood, depending on what music I was listening to at the time. **

**For anyone who's contacted me recently, I am sorry and I will get back to you, very shortly! I was just obsessed with this until it came out right. Usual thanks and disclaimers apply.  
**

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**Chapter 35**

In the end, it didn't take her long to track him down.

She had tried Baker Street first, using her spare key, but there was no sign of him or any obvious clue as to whether or not he had been there since Mrs. Hudson's attack. He wasn't answering his phone or replying to any of her texts. She had then hurried across to Bart's thinking he might be in the laboratories, but he was not there either.

She paused, trying to think where she would go if she were Sherlock. It was possible that he had had a breakthrough in the case and had dashed off, or possibly he was hot on the trail of Mrs. Hudson's attacker, but somehow she didn't think that was the case. The last couple of times she had seen him, she had sensed an odd lassitude to him that she'd never before associated with the fierce ball of energy that was Sherlock Holmes. He was _tired_ of it all and her heart ached for him – but what was the alternative? Who could _possibly_ do what Sherlock did? He'd made himself far too indispensable.

Where might he go if he was feeling deeply conflicted, possibly even scared? That he _had _been scared, she had no doubt. It had simply never occurred to him that _she_ – Molly - might be in any real danger. His focus had narrowed to three individuals: John, Greg and Mrs. Hudson, and he couldn't imagine that this shadowy individual would be a risk to anyone else. As far as they knew (and assuming he had accurately deduced the perpetrator's motivation), he was quite right about that…but for just one vital moment, before he had pulled Greg's old coat back, he must have feared that he had been wrong all along. She couldn't _imagine_ how he must have felt in that moment, thinking it was _her_ lying there, badly injured, possibly even dead.

Equally, she couldn't imagine anywhere that gave him as much happiness and security as either Bart's forensic department or his chaotically cosy lounge at 221B. So where could he be?

At a loss, she drifted home, checking her mobile every now and then just in case he had replied to one of her texts. But the moment she entered her flat, she _knew_ where he was. She couldn't say how she knew – it was simply that the flat _felt_ different.

And yet, on the face of it, the flat _was_ empty. She hurried through the darkened rooms, but they were silent and showed no sign that he had been there recently.

She paused in her bedroom, her eyes on the closed window pane. Sherlock had a key to her flat now, but still usually entered by that route for some reason. Despite the security risks, she had got out of the habit of locking it…which was, of course, how Irene Adler had managed to get in. Greg had berated her on more than one occasion about the proximity of the window ledge to the metal fire escape that ran down the side of the building from the roof.

She pushed the window up and leaned out over the old-fashioned sill, looking at the roof just above her and then at the ladder speculatively. It would be perfectly easy for any moderately fit person to get up onto the wide window ledge, grab the railings of the fire escape and swing their feet over onto the rungs, which was the main reason it was there, of course. Luckily, she'd never had occasion to use it. She glanced downwards at the distant ground, and felt a cold prickle of sweat go down her spine.

Not wanting to lock herself out by accident if the heavy window slammed down, she found a door wedge and shoved it into the base of the window sill. Then she sat on the ledge, holding onto the curtains tightly with one hand while reaching out to grab the wet cold metal railing with the other. She gripped it tightly, her eyes closing for a moment. Then she took a deep breath and, carefully not looking down, swung her legs over the edge of the sill and got her feet onto the ladder.

Once safely on the fire escape and gripping tightly to the railings, she began to climb upwards. She was on the top floor, so it wasn't far to the roof. She'd never been up there, but it was a fair assumption that the ladder led _somewhere_. At least part of the root must be flat and allow access – which was fairly common in these old apartment blocks.

As she climbed up the last few rungs, she stopped, her heart leaping into her mouth. She could make out the dark silhouette of a tall man standing a few feet away. He was on a flat section roughly six feet wide between two sloping sections of roof, with his back to her, looking out over the rooftops of North London towards Hampstead Heath. The attitude of deep concentration would have given him away even if he hadn't been wearing that distinctive coat. She breathed more easily as she continued climbing – at least she had tracked him down and could see he was safe.

She stepped carefully onto the roof and let out a trembling breath of pure relief. He didn't turn in her direction as she walked towards him, but she had no doubt he knew she was there. The tarmacked surface glittered in the cold moonlight, still wet from the earlier rainstorm. The sky had cleared and the moon was bright, but the early spring air was cool after the rain, and she shivered in her thin suit jacket.

As she approached him, she put up a hand tentatively before letting it drop again without touching him. His posture seemed forbidding; his shoulders set in firm lines. He was looking intently out into the darkness – sometimes at the streets and alleyways far below, sometimes at the blank windows of the apartment block across the road. She wondered what it was that held his attention. Was there something significant that he could detect in the darkness, some little clue or sign of activity that was invisible to her? She looked out doubtfully, but the view looked exactly the same as before, despite the altered angle.

Looking down at the street in front of her flat reminded her of something. "I wonder where _Sherrinford_ has got to. Do you think he's still in the country?"

He made a startled movement. He must have been waiting for her to say something, but clearly hadn't expected _that_. "Oh – he's around."

His voice sounded a little hoarse and again she lifted a hand to him and let it hover, uncertain of its welcome. The distance between them seemed even greater than before, and she shivered again, not entirely from the cold.

Suddenly seeming more aware of her, he shrugged out of his coat and put it around her shoulders. His hands lingered for no longer than they needed to, and the concern seemed simply perfunctory – a polite gesture and no more. Nevertheless, she pulled the warm wool around her gratefully and breathed in his familiar scent.

"I'm sorry," she burst out, at last.

His quick glance at her showed that he was surprised by _this_ as well. "_You're_ sorry?"

"I was unfair – about Greg's death. I should have realised…" She swallowed and tried again. "I didn't give you a chance to explain. I – I know you cared about him in your own way. As much as you ever can."

She touched his arm tentatively and, feeling the tension there, knew she'd said the wrong thing again. "Oh, _damn it_, Sherlock - I'm sorry about _that _too. I've just made it sound as if you're not _capable_ of caring in the same way as everyone else -."

"But I'm _not_," he responded quietly, not looking at her.

"Yes, you _are_! You just show it in a different way."

"What makes you believe that?" He refused to meet her gaze, his eyes continuing to flit across the darkened streets with apparent absorption. His voice was oddly impersonal – not angry, as she might have expected him to be. "All my life, I've been told that I don't…react in the right way – the _socially appropriate_ way." Now his voice _did_ sound bitter as he spat the words out. "My mother tutting at me in her well-meaning way, Mycroft's acid comments… Even my closest friend once described me as a 'machine' – and he should know. So please don't insult me by pretending that _you_ understand me when no one else has ever come close."

"That's not true! People _do_ understand you –."

"_People_," he sneered.

"Well…" she cast around for inspiration. "Well, what about Mrs. Hudson? She knows you better than you think. And - and I know John bitterly regrets his words that day." She paused for a moment. "And _Greg_ understood you too. I'm certain of it. Why else would he have put up with your behaviour all those years if he hadn't known the real you, underneath it all?"

She noted the way he flinched at Greg's name before he replied, finally looking directly at her. His face was white and seemed set in stone. "And _you_? You thought the worst of me the other day, didn't you? How am I supposed to convince _you_?" He flung his arms out – the gesture appearing helpless but also a little defiant and angry. "I _can't _change and I _don't_ intend to try."

"_No_, and I don't want you to! I didn't realise it until tonight…" She shook her head, angry with herself. "Before Greg died, I said that I loved you exactly the way you were – and I _do_… I - I just wanted you to know that," she added, lamely. She sensed that her words were not enough to convince him, but she wasn't sure what else she could say. How could she make Sherlock trust her again?

He seemed prepared to accept her last words without further argument, or more likely he couldn't be bothered to debate the point, as he let out a weary sigh and resumed his intent perusal of the scene. After a few tense moments of silence, he stirred and looked at her again, his eyes very blue in the moonlight. "Earlier, when I saw Mrs. Hudson…for just a moment, with that coat, I thought -."

"_Yes_," she interrupted quickly. "Yes. I _know_."

He looked at her for a moment before raising his eyebrows. "So, it would seem that _Mycroft_ was right all along. How very irritating."

"How do you mean?" she asked, her heart sinking. _This_ didn't sound good.

"Well, _look_ at me!" he burst out, gesturing a little wildly. "Have you ever known one of my cases to stretch out as long as this one? I've been…_distracted_ from the Work. It _might_ be argued that if I hadn't been too busy thinking of more _personal_ matters, I could have prevented the bomb going off. I might even have saved Greg's life -."

"_Oh no you don't_!" She was suddenly furious with him. "I know where you're going with this – and _don't you dare_! You _don't_ get to suggest that it's purely your feelings for me that have made this case difficult…"

"Really? Well, since you're _evidently_ the expert, what's _your_ suggestion?" he responded, sounding more weary than mocking.

She stared at him in disbelief. "How can someone as intelligent as you _still _have so little personal insight? You can deduce motivation – psychoanalyse murderers. Half the time, you can tell exactly what _I'm_ thinking just by looking at my face – and yet you don't understand _yourself_."

She stepped closer to him and gripped his arms, forcing him to look at her. "Sherlock, you have had a _hell_ of a year – four years, actually. You've been stalked by a psychopath, you've had to lie to your best friend and fake your own death, and then come back from that…and more recently you've been pursued by a blackmailer. You've been shot – you _died_ on the operating table, for God's sake! You killed someone in cold blood and had to face the consequences of that. And a now good friend has died just because someone wanted to punish you. Tell me, which part of that _doesn't _sound incredibly stressful to you?"

She let go of him and stepped back, folding her arms. "_I'm _the least of your problems, don't you _see_? If you _are_ really struggling, shouldn't you look at the impact that James Moriarty has had on your life? If it hadn't been for _him_…" She felt tears pricking her eyes and blinked angrily. "If it hadn't been for that _bastard_, you'd probably still be just solving odd mysteries for Greg, arguing with Mycroft over petty things, making John's life far too exciting and bothering me for corpses to whip! Living a perfectly ordinary life – well, ordinary for _you_ anyway. Practically anyone else who'd been through what _you_ have in the last few years would have been heading for a nervous breakdown long before now."

His eyes flickered away for a moment before refocusing on her and she could see him giving her words serious consideration even as the doubt still lingered in his expression.

"The trouble is," she continued, watching him carefully, "you've fallen into the trap of assuming that just because Mycroft is older than you, he's also more emotionally mature. Whereas…well, I don't pretend to know much about his personal life, but can you_ really_ imagine that he's remotely happy, for all his wealth and power? Because _I _can't. Don't start believing again that 'caring isn't an advantage' because it _just isn't true_! And, in your heart, you _know_ it."

He stared at her for a moment, looking utterly helpless. "_Molly_…"

"_Please_." She stepped forward again, gripping his arms. "Please, just -." _Just kiss me_, she wanted to say, _and then it'll be alright_.

He must have seen something of her feelings in her face, because he gave a wordless exclamation and suddenly she was in his arms, held tightly against his body. She felt him trembling violently and knew that the stony exterior was simply a façade.

"What you really need," she murmured into his neck, "is a bloody _holiday_."

"_Ridiculous_." His response was scathing, and yet she felt some of the tension drain out of him. He pressed a firm kiss onto the top of her head and she _knew_ then that they would be alright.

She smiled. "Have you ever been on a proper one? I mean apart from being reluctantly dragged along somewhere with your family?"

There was a long pause before he replied. "We…used to go to Sussex. Arundel, the South Downs. Archaeological digs and long walks on the beach with Redbeard…" She absorbed this silently, resisting the urge to ask who Redbeard was. "It was…not unpleasant. I was able to get away from Mycroft. He _hates_ the countryside."

She laughed at the satisfaction in his voice. "Well, that's a possibility. We'll get through this and then – then I think we'll have earned a break." She lifted her face from his neck, pushing him back slightly to look at him before saying firmly: "I _don't_ want you to change. I think it's fair to say that – that I _will_ get angry and I _will_ say things that I don't really mean – that's inevitable. But…I think I know my mind better now." She smiled up at him. "The truth is, I fell in love with the Sherlock Holmes I met at Bart's all those years ago. I fell in love with your energy, your intellect, all those weird experiments that I never understood, your impatience, your – your _terrible_ manners, your - your…just _you_. I tried _so hard_ not to love you, I told myself it was a ridiculous infatuation and I tried to move on, but I just _couldn't_. It was impossible. Even if you never loved me back, I would've carried on loving you. And I _do_ know you. I should've _realised _that you loved Greg… Even if it wasn't obvious to anyone else, it _should've_ been to _me_."

She was crying now for some ridiculous reason. She tried to turn her head away to wipe her eyes surreptitiously, but he lifted her face and kissed them away very carefully and gently. Frowning a little, he asked, "_What_ terrible manners?"

"Oh – _you_! You know perfectly well what I mean!"

She laughed through her tears. He was smiling slightly, but his eyes were glittering too. This time she could recognise the unshed tears that he was trying very hard to restrain.

"Greg Lestrade was a good man," he said quietly, his voice suddenly desolate.

"Yes. Yes, he _was_. A very good man." Paradoxically, for the first time since Greg's death, she felt able to recall him _without _crying. The stark image of his death was starting to fade from the front of her mind; to be replaced by happier memories. "He was my friend."

"And mine too, even if that might surprise some people." He sighed and leaned into her again, resting his cheek against the top of her head. She was beginning to recognise this as his way of seeking support, and wrapped her arms around his waist in comfort.

They stood that way for some time in the silence of the cold evening, high above the streets below.

"Are you any closer to finding his killer?" she asked, eventually.

She felt his body tense, although he didn't let go of her or move away. "I could have tracked down the killer quickly enough, but I wanted to find out who hired him first. I thought that one might lead me to the other. I should have focused on him more – it didn't occur to me that she would hire the same person to attack Mrs. Hudson."

"So he _was_ the same man? Mrs. Hudson couldn't recall anything. And I -," she swallowed, "- I'm no more use to you now than I was at the time. Whenever I try to remember, it's only _Greg_ I see…" She closed her eyes against the awful image.

He ran a soothing hand down her back. "Yes, I believe he _is_ the same man. Which also suggests that he may mean _more_ to her than just a gun for hire. They may be working together."

"How do you know for certain that it was him both times?"

"Two clues. First, I had someone watching 221B and ready to contact me, just in case Mrs. Hudson decided to go out alone. She reported a tall, dark-haired man appearing at the corner of the road just as Mrs. Hudson, John and Mary returned. This man paused in a doorway for a moment and then strode into the house and back out again a minute later. It happened so quickly, the watcher didn't have time to warn me. She described the man as 'nondescript', the type of person who is easily forgotten – which, as you know, is the problem the police have found when interviewing witnesses to Greg's murder. Also, I found a man's footprint, too big to be John's, in a dusty corner of the hallway by the stairwell where he clearly stepped back after hitting Mrs. Hudson. It matched a set found at the café where Greg was shot."

"You're not telling me they managed to lift distinct footprints from that café? It would be impossible!"

"From the café itself, _yes_, but I investigated the area when I got back from Ireland. It was some hours afterwards, but despite the inevitable mess that the forensic team had made, I still managed to find some prints across the street from the café. They were in a cordoned-off doorway, part of a building site, where someone had stood for several minutes on a sheet of MDF, facing the café entrance. The prints, damp and muddy from the wet pavement, were still there several hours later. The builders hadn't been working that day, and no one else would have had any reason to step past the cordon they had left. Only someone who wanted to hide while watching the customers at the café…before choosing his moment to strike."

Molly considered this in silence for a moment. "Was he responsible for the bomb too?"

"Possibly. They may have been working together, and he would have been the one planting the bomb. Not the security hacks, though. They would require someone with internal knowledge – our suspect isn't in _that_ league."

"What about the woman? The one that you think is behind all this?"

He paused. "Possibly – or she knows someone who _can_. She may be in a position to blackmail them into helping her… But I'm not much nearer to finding her. Moriarty covered his tracks thoroughly. Every document has been destroyed; every possible witness seems to have either disappeared or died in unusual circumstances. If I could _only_ work out where he was born… My suspicion is one of the Magdalene laundries – either he was born there or his younger sister was, and both were taken away from their mother. She may have had some form of mental illness if she'd been sent there. But, it's near impossible to obtain any information from the laundries – since the scandal broke back in the nineties, they've destroyed a lot of records or have been otherwise obstructive in their dealings with investigators. The mother probably died fairly young in that institution, especially if she had an untreated psychiatric illness. She would have been buried in an unmarked grave and Moriarty and his sister would have been put up for adoption, but it would have been apparent at quite an early stage that there was something wrong with _him_, at least."

He paused. "I need to find the sister. _She's_ the one who ordered Greg's death, as well as the bombing of John's flat and the attack on Mrs. Hudson. Moriarty's death pushed her over the edge – or more precisely the _nature_ of his death. I suspect she had the full story sent to her by Magnussen after his death. She may not have even remembered that she had a brother if they were separated in early childhood, which they may have been if he showed early signs of his mother's illness. She has built up some kind of picture of him which may be based more on sentiment than reality. She blames me for what she perceives as his obsession with me, and hates the fact that I cheated him by surviving."

Cheek pressed comfortably against his chest, she thought this over for a moment. "Couldn't you trace all the girls who were adopted from Ireland during a certain period? She would be – what – early thirties now, if she's a bit younger than him? So born around 1982?"

"Yes, and I have someone working on that, but it's difficult if the records were destroyed. We're also going through the records of airlines and ferry operators to investigate any instances of an adult entering Ireland alone and leaving with a female child of the approximate age, but that's tricky too, because it happened all the time back then, and she could have been taken anywhere. Mainland Britain, the USA, Canada, Australia… It wasn't in the interest of these institutions to draw attention to the private international adoptions, for which they received financial 'donations'."

She smiled. "Can I assume that the 'someone' working on this for you is Sherrinford?"

"If anyone could locate something relevant in the records, it would be him," he admitted. "But in fact, he's too busy focusing on what he does best – infiltration. Moriarty's sister wouldn't have been capable of hacking into telecommunication systems across the UK _or_ overcoming the security of several stores in a single night without serious help. It's up to Sherrinford to go underground and investigate who's working for her."

"Then who's helping you with the records? Not Mycroft, surely?"

He paused; she could sense his hesitation. "I'm…not sure I can tell you at this stage."

She frowned, considering. Who else would Sherlock agree to work with? And why the secrecy? It couldn't be John, otherwise he would tell her…

She lifted her head, pushing him back to look at his face. "Sherlock…just who is Mary Watson?"

The evasive expression on his face told her all she needed to know. "So, it _is_ her helping you! Who _is_ she? You're not telling me she's just a nurse. What _did_ happenbetween John and Mary last year? He found something out about her, didn't he? That's why he was behaving so oddly…"

He gripped her shoulders, his face very serious. "I _can't_ tell you anything about that, Molly. I told you once that it's not my story to tell, and that hasn't changed. And I can't even tell you who she _is_…for the simple reason that I hardly know myself. But…_yes_, you're right that she's not just a nurse. She has some expertise in…well, she's ideally placed to do the research I need. That's all."

"And John doesn't know about it?"

He hesitated. "John wouldn't want her to get involved. They have an agreement, while Eleanor is young at least. But right now, I need her. She understands that."

She stared at him. "You _can't _put her at risk! Think of John and Ellie…"

He shook his head impatiently. "Believe me, Mary Watson is _more than_ capable of looking after herself – _and_ her family. Don't forget, she has a vested interest. That person tried to kill John. She told me once -," he stopped, smiling slightly. "Well, let's just say that she wouldn't allow _anyone_ to take John away from her. But, in any case, I'm _not_ putting her at risk. It's just research."

"And what have _you_ been working on?"

He shrugged, looking away from her; she recognised this as a sign that he didn't like to admit having made limited progress. "Looking into Magnussen. Trying to investigate who he had a hold over. I'm sure this woman was being blackmailed by him. He'd made arrangements for her to find out what happened on the roof at Bart's _after_ his death. It was a last dig – at me and at her." He grimaced. "Magnussen didn't keep any information trails – he kept most of it in his head. But there are some leads to follow up."

"Is there anything I can do to help? You thought this woman might approach me at some point after that chatroom conversation. Would it help if I tried that again?"

He considered her for a moment, his head on one side, before shaking it. "I don't think that'll help. If she was going to approach you, she'd have done so weeks ago. Are you certain you haven't had any odd encounters – at work, perhaps?"

She shook her head. "No, nothing. But in any case, I suppose the approach we tried wouldn't help _now_, especially if she _was_ watching us after the bomb. I could hardly pretend not to be on good terms with you now."

He was looking at her with a strange gleam in his eye. "You could move into 221B now," he said, softly, as if it had only just occurred to him. "There's nothing to stop you."

"Would you _really_ want me to invade your sanctuary?" she teased, even as her stomach warmed at the thought of living with him. "You must have it exactly the way you want it, now that John's moved out."

He shrugged, the slightest impression of a smile tugging at his lips. "I'm sure I could cope."

"I do come with baggage, you know," she warned, solemnly. "He's tall, dark and handsome…and rather furry. Still...I believe he approves of you."

He pulled a face, as if considering Toby. "Well…I suppose it _would_ make a change from talking to the skull…"

She laughed, pulling his face down to cut off his words in the best way possible. Knowing him to be preoccupied, she had meant the kiss to be brief. However, he deepened it, tightening his arms around her and tangling one hand in her hair to hold her head steady.

She returned the kiss willingly. She sensed that he _needed_ this as a distraction from his current fears about his ability to solve Greg's murder. Desire was thrumming through him; she could feel that even beneath his neat suit as his pelvis ground into her. In the past, she would never have considered Sherlock to be much of a sexual being, but she could hardly fail to recognise the unrestrained passion in his body at the moment.

She was no less keen herself, feeling a strong need for a deeper connection with Sherlock to quell her own fears. Her emotions had been all over the place since Greg's death, and cold logic told her that this was _not_ the right time, but as she ran her palms up across his chest and felt his heart beating fast, she _knew_ she couldn't hold back any more. She _needed_ this every bit as much as he did, and she opened her mouth freely to his questing tongue and pressed her body into his, trying to convey welcome with every part of her being.

His hands ran more freely over her, almost feverishly, as if to reassure himself that she was really there, while he nipped at her lower lip and then sucked on it almost hungrily. Gasping, she pushed his face back, peppering that long white neck with kisses while her hand slipped down and palmed him, hot and heavy, through his trousers.

He moaned harshly at the bold touch and pushed her away a little, his breath quick and unsteady as his sharp eyes ran over her face, interpreting her thoughts accurately as always. "_Yes_."

"_Really_? Now?" She didn't quite believe him, even as her heart beat frightening fast with nerves and desire. "What about the case?"

"_Come on_." He took her hand and pulled her roughly back across the roof to the fire escape. She stumbled over the hem of his coat, tugging at his arm to stop him.

"I _hate_ heights. I have an irrational fear of falling."

"I know." He sounded unsurprised.

She gulped out a nervous laugh. "Of _course_ you do. It took a lot out of me to get up here - I'm not sure about getting down that ladder..."

His hands were warm as he squeezed her shoulders, smiling down at her. "_Trust me_."

So she did.


	36. Chapter 36

**Well, this is it! My thanks to the lovely likingthistoomuch for the much needed inspiration! You have to admit you probably weren't expecting the next chapter to be up quite so soon ;-) Guys, go and check her amazing stories out NOW (well, after you've read this anyway).**

**This is the closest I'll ever get to writing smut, which is to say that it's not particularly smutty at all. I don't do graphic stuff, mainly because I just can't write it - when I try, I easily qualify for a Bad Sex award!**

**Usual disclaimers apply, and thanks as always to my lovely reviewers, including the guest reviewers.**

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**Chapter 36**

They stood together in the dark bedroom, lit only by the moonlight. Facing one another in silence.

Molly wondered who would be the first to make a move. Having helped her climb down the fire escape and back through the window, he'd turned to shut the window and then had stood a short distance away, staring at her. His face was blank, he showed no sign of anxiety, and yet she assumed it was fear of the unknown that restrained him. She had speculated in the past as to his lack of sexual experience and had wondered how much she would have to guide him - but then, this was _Sherlock_, who probably already knew _exactly_ how her body worked and how to elicit the best responses. _No_…this wasn't fear...

And then she realised, from the enquiring tilt of his head, that he wasn't hesitant _at all_. He was merely waiting for something from _her_ – anticipating that she had a question for him. But what?

She stepped closer, reaching out to take his hands in hers. "Do you remember," she asked, "that conversation you had with John one day in the lab? When you told him that you had 'normal' sexual responses but that you chose not to act on them?"

He gave a barely perceptible nod.

She smiled. "I wasn't sure whether you remembered. I thought it might be just one of those conversations that you deleted afterwards as 'irrelevant'."

"No. I've retained every conversation we've ever had."

She frowned, confused. "You mean with John?"

Again the shake of the head. "With _you_."

She shook her head slightly, unsure whether or not to believe him. "What – even back _then_, when you hardly knew that I existed?"

"I _always_ knew that you existed, Molly." His voice was impossibly deep as he moved closer to her. "Even back _then_. I simply didn't understand _why_ you mattered so much. Logic suggested you _shouldn't_, and yet -."

He broke off and closed his eyes as she put her hand up to his face, running a finger gently over the curve of his cheekbone. "You said back then that you didn't understand the _appeal _of sex. Do you now?"

He hesitated, opening his eyes again. "I've never been a…very responsive person. The average adult male experiences sexual arousal roughly -."

She recognised his clinical persona and interrupted him to head it off. "I don't think averages are relevant here. You – you're a very…_cerebral_ person, Sherlock. With all that's going on in your mind, I doubt you could be expected to be as interested in sex in _general_ as other men seem to be. But - but – just back there, on the roof, you seemed _interested_. You had a response. And before too…" She was thinking of the last time he'd spent a night in her bed.

"I _am_ a normal man, Molly," he reminded her, just a glimpse of amusement in his eyes. "I _think_ it's a little less usual for me to think of a woman in a sexual way than it is for _John_, for example, but that doesn't mean I _never_ respond."

She found herself smiling in response. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to put you on the spot. I'm just trying to understand _why_."

"Why _you_?"

"Well…maybe. I mean, didn't you say that – that…sexual release was a waste of perfectly good energy, or something like that?"

"I believe I said _exactly_ that." His tone was dry and more than a little amused. "You seem to have retained that conversation _very_ well."

She flushed and looked away, embarrassed. "Well, it was a significant conversation - for _me_, anyway. I was still trying to work you out back then."

"You still _are_ – aren't you?" His smile seemed a little bemused, his eyes questioning.

She shook her head, trying to work out how to put it. "I – I just wondered why you have suddenly decided that it's worth expanding 'perfectly good energy' on _this_ – on _me_. If – if you can't see the appeal of sex…"

She trailed off uncertainly, but he cupped her face, raising it to his own so she could see the soft warmth in his eyes. "I can see the appeal of _you_."

And those simple words made everything right. She had feared that sex with _Sherlock_, of all people, might turn out to be a purely physical act, albeit one that he might be quite proficient at, with his thirst for research and unerring ability to deduce and predict her every desire. But his words suggested that his own desire was focused predominantly on _her_, and not just on the act itself. With that knowledge, she felt herself relaxing.

With Tom, and the few other men before him, sex had been fun but flawed – all about testing and trying and finding out…about _learning_ one another's likes and dislikes, which was, in its own way, enjoyable. Whereas _tonight_…she had hesitated at least partly because…well, how could they _possibly_ be on equal grounds, when in true Sherlock-style he would probably know her intimately in advance, while she wouldn't know him? What would attract him and what repel? How could she 'learn' him, and how could she be relaxed enough to even try?

She had assumed herself to be reasonably experienced before tonight, but her past attempts at intimacy hadn't prepared her for the sheer _emotional_ connection. Even with Tom, the only man that she had slept with while at least _believing_ herself to be in love, there had been _something_ missing; some mysterious element that she had sought and strived for even at the instant of release. Something that she had instinctively _known_ should be there, had tried to pursue, even if she couldn't put a name to it.

With Sherlock…there was no 'trying'. No _conscious_ attempt to work out how to please him; no thought of the logistics - how to move, where to touch to achieve _this_ reaction or _that_… All was pure instinct, pure sensation…all felt utterly natural, as if it had been planned all along.

They sank into her bed as if it had been welcoming them into its tangled sheets for years. His body was strong and safe and warm and inviting, he was passionate and exciting one moment and then tender and achingly gentle the next, even as his breath shuddered out, harsh and fast, to reveal his pent-up desire. His hands and lips were sure and certain, his inexperience unapparent, although his eyes constantly flickered over her, as if checking her reactions. As if he was recording and cataloguing every moment, every response.

While with other men, even Tom, she had closed her eyes, as if to maintain some element of privacy and control even at the moment of climax, _this _time she was compelled to keep them open all the time. She was greedy for visual input, and her eyes roamed his face and body as ravenously as her hands and mouth – running over the smooth planes of his back, licking and sucking and tasting his skin all over, biting into his collar bone just hard enough to make him arch his neck and utter wordless gasps of encouragement. She felt as if she couldn't get enough of _this_ – of _him_. Greed made her insatiable; she pushed him back to explore him more fully. He let her for a while, his head dropping back against the pillows as his body arched into her inquisitive touch, before surging forward once more to press her into the mattress and devour her mouth... and then sinking _at last_, with a drawn-out moan and a shudder of pure pleasure, into her waiting and eager body.

Oddly, it was not chiefly his body that mesmerised her; her eyes were drawn to his face again and again. She felt as if she was drowning in the soft dark blue of his irises, as if she was falling forward, diving into their depths…but for once she wasn't afraid of losing control. She gave herself over to him utterly, completely, openly, without reservation…and saw the momentary astonishment before his expression softened into understanding. His face, more open and emotional than she had ever seen it before, showed a matching surrender. Foreheads touching, their eyes shared a silent, deep communion as they rocked together, straining towards a resolution. She teetered on the edge for the longest moment before finally falling over, gasping and sobbing out her pleasure; at the same time, she fought to keep her eyes open and on him, desperate to see the moment that the normally-controlled face crumpled beautifully into pure physical rapture. Wanting to _claim _that primitive image, to burn it beneath her eyelids, to know that it was _her_ memory - _her_ sweet reward - and no one else's.

Afterwards, they clung together, panting, their breath melding in the warm darkness. Reluctant to separate, limbs entwined, trying to hold fast to a moment of perfection that was slipping away from them gradually with each passing second.

Finally, they sighed, their grip loosened and she slipped away from him, falling back on the mattress, eyes fluttering closed. She was sated and bone-tired - exhausted by more than merely physical exertion. Long-repressed emotions had been allowed to fly free, leaving her limp and overwhelmed in their wake.

The greatest wonder was that she no longer feared his disapprobation. She had allowed him in, permitted him to view her deepest desires and emotions…and he had _accepted_ them – had accepted _her_, with all her weaknesses and faults. She had no regrets, and that knowledge left her dazed but glowing with a deep-burning happiness. She turned on her side, opening her eyes to look at him without any fear or doubts or uncertainties for once.

Sherlock lay on his back, the lean lines of his damp body gleaming silver in the moonlight as he stared at the ceiling. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his mouth open as he gulped in deep breaths of air. She wondered if he was experiencing the same sense of wonderment; if he, too, felt wrung out and satisfied by the connection they had made. Did he even understand that it wasn't always like _this_? That, in fact, _she_ had been as much a virgin as _he_ before tonight? His gaze was as much inward as outward and she could tell he was cataloguing the experience, taking it apart and examining it as he filed it away for future reference.

She watched him silently, not attempting to reach out to him. She sensed that he needed space to process his feelings. He had made himself entirely vulnerable to another person, probably for the first time since childhood, which couldn't have been easy – not for _him_.

After a while, he rolled towards her, leaning his head on his forearm as he gazed at her face, his breath still coming a little fast. His eyes were very dark as they traced her face and body with something like hunger. She might have believed that he was aroused again despite his recent orgasm, except that his gaze was something other than merely sexual. Again, she had a sense that he was trying to memorise the moment and file it away in his Mind Palace.

She allowed his eyes to roam over her at his own pace, to linger on her nude body, without feeling any embarrassment or the remotest desire to cover herself. He was giving her the same freedom, and she found her gaze lowering, seeking out the planes and curves of that pale body, still glistening with sweat. The rise and fall of his chest was beginning to slow, and his body was languid and beautiful with it, lacking the tension that had marked it so much recently.

She reached out with her fingertips, touching them lightly to the dulled red mark that had appeared on his collarbone, the spot where she had briefly sunk her teeth into his skin. She had no idea why she had done that; it had not been in her nature to leave a visible mark on her previous lovers. Was it possessiveness? Her hand faltered at the possibility.

His eyes had been following her fingers as they gently traced the edge of the bruise blooming there. As if he sensed her uncertainty, he lifted his hand and covered her fingers with his own, pressing them down hard. It was as if he was trying to deepen the bruise, to imprint it indelibly on his skin.

His eyes returned to her face, a little smile tugging at his lips. "My extensive research on the topic seems to indicate that it's not always quite like_...that_."

He didn't have to clarify what he meant by 'that'. It wasn't a question but she answered it anyway. "_No_. Never before - for me, anyway. No quite so…overwhelming."

He would hardly have been human if he hadn't looked just a _little_ gratified. She rolled her eyes anyway, trying to hide her grin before turning it into a yawn.

His eyes narrowed, appearing to notice her tiredness. "You need to sleep."

Exhaustion was stealing over her against her will. She had no desire to drift into unconsciousness, to withdraw from this moment of sweet and perfect intimacy. She feared that when she woke again, it would be gone. "Will _you_ sleep?"

"Soon. I have to think for a while." He released her hand and reached down the bed to pull up the discarded duvet. "I believe I _can_ think now," he added thoughtfully. "My head feels clearer. Less cluttered by…minutiae. _Interesting_."

She grinned, imagining some _extremely_ interesting experiments in the near future. "So there are _some_ advantages to 'a waste of perfectly good energy', then?"

His eyes narrowed at her as he deduced the direction of her thoughts, but she could sense his amusement. "That would be a highly unscientific experiment. Far too many variables." He leaned over her, tucking her into the soft, warm duvet. "Now,_ sleep_."

She peered up at him from under heavy eyelids. "Don't want to sleep. Don't want to stop looking at you."

His face showed his puzzlement, so she clarified. "I don't want this to be over. I'm scared that when I wake up, you won't be here anymore. You might've – I don't know – gone off to solve the case or something. Which isn't to say that you _can't_ go if you need to," she added quickly, not wanting to sound possessive.

He stared at her, a complicated but incredibly tender expression passing over his face. "I'll be here."

She propped herself up on her elbow, trying to clear her befuddled head. "You don't _have_ to be here. I know you don't sleep as much as I do. If you need to go…"

"I'll be here," he repeated, firmly.

Satisfied, she sank back onto the pillows. Just before she closed her eyes and succumbed to the inevitable, she caught a final glimpse of him. Still naked and apparently unconcerned by the chill in the air, he lay on his back staring at the ceiling, his hands folded under his chin Sherlock-style.

* * *

A grey, pre-dawn light was creeping through the window when she woke. It brushed very gently over the features of the man sleeping peacefully next to her.

Her eyes shot open at the sight, and not just out of surprise that he had kept his promise. It was the closest she had ever been to Sherlock while deep in untroubled sleep – in fact, she didn't think she'd ever seen him quite this peaceful. She noticed that he had, at some point, got under her duvet for warmth, and he was curled up on his side, facing her. Although he'd left some distance between them (and she suspected that Sherlock would never be a natural cuddler), she counted it victory that he hadn't left the bed to sleep on the sofa.

In the pre-dawn silvery light, his face was more ethereally beautiful than ever. She remembered looking down at his sleeping face in the hospital all those months ago and wondering what it would be like to wake up next to that peculiar mix of beauty – and assuming then that it would never happen. Well, _now_ she had her opportunity, and she propped herself up on her elbow and looked at him thoughtfully.

In sleep, his features seemed softer and warmer. That strongly defined mouth was relaxed and slack, and his forehead was smoother and not marred by the habitual frown that he wore far too often these days. There was a stony immobility about Sherlock's usual expression – an objective unemotional curiosity, a wariness even – but here she could see something perhaps of the child that he once was, and could understand why he might well be his mother's favourite son. He looked…at peace. _Happy_.

Wonderingly, she reached out, wanting to trace the hint of a smile on his lips. Her hand hovered for a moment, but she withdrew it again, fearing to disturb him. For Sherlock to be sleeping so soundly, he must be exhausted. She wondered precisely how long he had stayed awake last night. Had his thoughts been purely on _her_ – on _them_ – or had he been thinking about the case? If so, had he made any breakthroughs? If he had, he'd surely be off pursuing some new line of inquiry – she knew from John that Sherlock mid-case could forego sleep for a prolonged period of time. Or was it simply that he didn't want to break his promise not to leave her…or maybe even that _he_ didn't want to leave her?

She rolled onto her back, stretching luxuriously. She felt stiff and a little sore but in the best way possible, she reflected, as she grinned helplessly and no doubt foolishly at the ceiling.

When she glanced over at him again, his eyes were open and looking at her.

"Oh. Um – good morning." Flushing, she tried to turn the foolish grin down several watts of intensity, but she wasn't fooling him, and after looking at her for a few moments, he returned it with smile of his own. He didn't seem in any way panicked about still being in bed with her, and she counted that as another silent victory – not that she'd _seriously_ expected this to be a one-night-stand, but in her past experience, you never quite knew.

"Good morning." His voice was deep and gravelly with sleep and his greeting turned into a yawn.

She frowned, peering closer at him, noting the dark circles under his eyes. "How much _actual_ sleep did you get last night?"

He made an adjusting motion with his hand. "Oh, an hour or so. Long enough."

"An hour! What were you doing all that time?"

"Shh." He put a finger over her mouth before rolling onto his back. "Thinking."

"About the case?"

"Oh yes, that too." His voice was strangely dismissive. "But there were some rearrangements to make in my mind palace, which usually takes a few hours. For example, how do you feel about the experiments? I was thinking that once John and Mary move out again, if Mrs. Hudson doesn't mind, we could turn his old room into a laboratory. I mean, we don't need a second bedroom. That way, I could keep the kitchen clear, if you'd prefer it?" He glanced over at her; she noticed that his eyes were the softest green this morning, slightly at odds with his business-like manner. "And if you're going to be moving that damned feline in, you probably won't want the poisons out on the table _all_ the time."

She propped herself up on her elbow. "Um, are we having the 'moving-in' conversation? Only, I'm not really quite awake yet. Some coffee might help…"

He cut across her with another question. "How do you feel about Sussex?"

"Er, what – for a holiday?" She felt her thoughts derailing. "I mean, _yes_, of course, it sounds lovely, but…don't you have a case to solve first?"

He waved a dismissive hand. "Of course. No, I meant to _live_ in."

"_What_?" She sat up quickly. "Sherlock, what on _Earth_ are you talking about?"

He stared at the ceiling, his hands behind his head. "I'm thinking of a cottage somewhere near the South Downs. Near Arundel. A place with some outbuildings that we could convert into a laboratory. I could keep bees – fascinating creatures. You could continue your training at the Brighton and Sussex. Get a post there. What do you think?"

She paused for a moment. Ridiculous though it sounded, it _did_ present an attractive picture. A peaceful little cottage right out in the countryside, not unlike her mother's idyllic little home. They could have a vegetable garden. A stable life; an undemanding little job in one of the smaller pathology departments, with regular hours, unlike at Bart's. Coming home every night content in the knowledge that _he_ would be there, safe and sound, instead of chasing some armed criminal across London's rooftops... "But…but what would _you_ do?"

He shrugged. "Make honey. Focus on my experiments. Write my blog."

"Give up the Work? You'd be bored stupid within the first forty-eight hours! There's _no way_ you'd want to leave London, anyway." She paused, frowning at him. "What's this _really_ about? What have you been doing to that Mind Palace of yours?"

He shrugged again, looking at her beneath his lashes. "Readjusting some ideas concerning my domestic situation."

"Yes, but readjusting them into _what_? Are you… Sherlock, are you trying to _impress_ me?" She knelt up and leaned over him. "Do you think that a quiet country cottage is what _I_ want? With _you_ trying very hard not to climb up the walls and committing crimes just so you'd have something to solve?"

"Well…it did seem attractive to you, didn't it?" He gave her a sly look. "Just for a minute. You can't deny it."

She stared down at him for a long moment…then began to laugh. "If that's some kind of _test_, to see if we're really compatible or something…"

"Molly, you can't _possibly _like the way I live at the moment." He frowned at her.

"Why not? Don't you think I _like_ being at Baker Street? Have I ever seemed uncomfortable there?" She smiled. "Actually, I quite like the chaos _and_ the dashing around."

He shook his head, seeming unconvinced. "That's because you don't live there. At the moment, if you get fed up, you can just leave – come back to your quiet, tidy flat. The chaos, as you call it, used to drive John to distraction. If I'm to take this seriously, I need to ensure that you actually _want _to move in with me. Any moderately sensible person -."

She leaned over and stopped that line of reasoning firmly in its track with an equally firm kiss. "Maybe I'm _not_ sensible. I'm certainly not _John_."

"Yes, I've noticed that," he agreed solemnly, but with a glint in his eyes as he ran them quickly over her body.

She flushed at what she must look like, naked and practically straddling him, before laughing at herself for being so silly – not much point in modesty given what they'd already got up to. Talking of which…she could feel a slow and not unpleasant tingle in the pit of her stomach at the memory. Judging by the look in his eye and the way his hand trailed lightly from her neck down to cup her breast, he was having similar thoughts.

As she lowered her head again, he surged up to meet her mouth with equal eagerness, sleepy and warm in the early morning light. It seemed like the best way to divert his mind from whatever mess of false impressions about domesticity he'd come up with. They were going to have to have a _serious_ talk about that and soon, but in the meantime…

It was different to the previous night – calmer and less intense. Despite his protestations, he was clearly tired and seemed happy to let her lead the pace. She was surprised at her own confidence as she set about working out how to take him apart, bit by bit…and also surprised at how responsive he was. She'd formed a vague impression that he might not be a highly-sexed person; had assumed that she might have to dampen her own libido to match his, but on the evidence so far, he was gratifyingly keen.

Much later, sweaty and content, she sprawled across his chest, tracing little patterns in his skin. He grabbed her hand, stilling it.

"_Tickles_," he complained in sleepy voice.

She smiled, kissing the dark love bite on his collar bone. "Are you very ticklish?"

He was silent for so long that she looked up, assuming he'd fallen asleep. His eyes were closed, but he murmured: "To tell the truth, I'm not entirely sure. No one has ever tried to tickle me."

She blinked at that, trying to imagine some so isolated that he'd never so much as engaged in a casual ticklish scuffle with a friend or even one of his brothers. How could someone get to the age of nearly forty and not know something as basic as that?

She could tell he was going to drop off once more although he kept trying to fight it – his lids were heavy and kept closing. With those long dark lashes framing his pale face, he looked very young and strangely vulnerable. She pushed the damp tangle of curls off his forehead and planted a tender kiss on his brow before rolling away from him.

His eyes opened again. "Need to get up. Work to do."

"It can wait. Go back to sleep," she ordered him, gently.

Surprisingly enough, he complied, his eyes fluttering closed once more and his breath evening out. She smiled at the way he wriggled himself more fully under her duvet and buried his face in the pillow with a satisfied little sigh.

Rather annoyingly, in the circumstances, Molly couldn't drop off again. She felt refreshed, more alive than she had for a long time. Also, now that she was fully awake and a little more aware of it, she felt rather sweaty and sticky. Her nose wrinkled as she reached up to push back a few strands of hair that were plastered to her forehead. Reluctantly, she slipped out from under the cosy duvet, careful not to disturb Sherlock, now sleeping peacefully again.

Grabbing her robe, she padded out into the lounge and along to her small bathroom. A shower was what was called for. Shower and a coffee - and then perhaps, if she was lucky and he slept for long enough, breakfast in bed.

She stood under the warm refreshing water, lathering her hair while mentally listing the items currently in her fridge and trying to work out if she had the ingredients to cook a full English without having to nip down to the Co-Op on the corner. She'd been a bit lax with both shopping and eating since Greg's death…

At the thought of Greg, a stab of pain went through her – pain and perhaps a little guilt. Was it _wrong_ to be feeling so happy this morning? And what would Greg have made of the latest developments? Would he approve? She tried to recall how he had reacted when they'd discussed her relationship with Sherlock that evening when Sherrinford appeared. Greg had raised some stumbling blocks, but he'd only been concerned about her. She didn't think he would have _really_ disapproved – he had loved Sherlock in his own way and would have wanted them both to be happy.

Hot tears stung her eyes and ran down her cheeks mingling with the stream of water as she imagined the luxury of being able to text Greg to arrange a coffee date to talk about her current happiness. She could almost visualise his response to such a text – shocked, amused, perhaps a little sarky, but fundamentally pleased for her. She _missed_ being able to tell him everything – _missed_ that protective big brother presence – _so much_ that it ached, deep down in her bones.

Taking a deep shuddering breath, she turned her face into the shower, closing her eyes and focusing on the pressure of the water, trying to drown out any depressing thoughts. She couldn't _keep_ thinking of Greg. Not today. Apart from anything else, it wasn't fair on Sherlock, when he needed her to be supportive and not distracted by unhelpful thoughts.

Right now, they needed to focus on finding Greg's killers. Her main job was to get Sherlock back on track. His current lack of interest in the Work might appear to be complimentary to her, but it was also alarming. She hadn't been lying when she'd said that she liked Sherlock's lifestyle the way it was – of course, she'd much rather he _didn't _spend his time pursuing dangerous criminals, but equally she'd hate to see him lose his passion for his work.

After her shower, she pulled her robe on and walked back into the lounge, absently towelling her hair dry, her mind more focused on breakfast options and whether Sherlock would eat anything she had available in the flat…

…Only to find Mycroft Holmes sitting on an armchair in her lounge.


	37. Chapter 37

**I'm sure you must have all wondered if I'd abandoned this, or gone under a bus or something! I am SO sorry it's taken so long. Various family illnesses, a holiday and a particularly busy time at work have all taken their toll. Anyway, here we are, back again. Usual disclaimers apply. And if you've reviewed and I haven't replied yet, thank you. Please know that I do appreciate your comments!**

* * *

**Chapter 37**

Molly stopped dead at the sight of Sherlock's brother in her living room. The damp towel with which she had been drying her hair dropped from her suddenly limp hands.

Mycroft was perched on the very edge of her armchair, frowning down at his hands and looking distinctly ill-at-ease.

He stood up quickly as he saw her, one hand raised in a conciliatory manner. "My apologies, Molly. I am _so_ sorry to disturb you. I'm quite certain I'm the _very_ last person you wish to see at the moment, but I _must _speak to Sherlock urgently. And to you too – _both _of you."

Instinctively, she glanced at her closed bedroom door and he followed her glance rather guiltily. "Yes, I am aware he's there. I glanced in while you were in the shower, but he appears to be asleep and I didn't like to…"

His voice trailed away. If anything he looked even guiltier, as if being about to admit that you didn't want to wake your peacefully slumbering brother was some kind of sin. Possibly in Mycroft's world it _was_. After all, why admit to the fatal weakness of actually _caring_ about another human being?

She took him in. Mycroft, who was never _really _fat despite his brother's constant barbs to the contrary, had lost weight. It didn't suit him – his expensive suit hung awkwardly and his particular brand of solid attractiveness was not the type that went well with gaunt features. His pale face was almost grey – either with stress or fatigue, likely both and probably some grief too, if Mary's theory about his feelings for Greg was correct. He looked _old_ – she was suddenly reminded that he was a good seven years older than Sherlock and, right now, the gap looked much larger than that.

He wasn't quite looking at her, and she remembered that she'd been avoiding him since Greg's death – that in fact that she'd come close to _hating _him for it, blaming him for being too slow or for not placing Greg's safety high enough in his priorities, even though she knew she was being unfair. Mycroft couldn't really be blamed for his men's mistakes. At the moment, she found it difficult to summon up any kind of anger or dislike.

It was clear that he understood her feelings of antipathy, possibly even shared them. There was something unusually apologetic about his body language, standing awkwardly in her lounge and carefully avoiding her gaze. She suspected he was waiting to be berated or turned out of the flat. She didn't think she'd _ever_ seen the usually self-assured Mycroft Holmes like this, and the generous impulses of her heart went out to him quite unreservedly.

Her eyes went to the closed door again and she sighed. A cosy breakfast in bed, just the two of them, would have been _so nice_...

Carefully pushing the pleasant image right to the back of her mind (was Mycroft as good a mind-reader as his brother?), she bent and retrieved the fallen towel. "Can it wait until he wakes up? When did you last eat? You look -." She stopped, not thinking it would be quite the thing to point out just how terrible he looked, and put her hand on his arm instead. "Why don't you come into the kitchen? I'll make you something – I don't know _what_, to be honest, because there's not much there, but coffee anyway…"

He gave her a startled look but allowed himself to be ushered into her cramped kitchen. "Coffee would be appreciated – or perhaps tea, if it wouldn't be too much trouble?"

She switched on the kettle, wrinkling her nose at the sour half inch of milk remaining in her fridge. "Just as long as you don't mind it black."

"That would be fine."

He leaned heavily against a cupboard in a distinctly un-Mycroft-like manner as she made the tea; glancing over at him, she bit her lip at his exhausted appearance. In typical Holmes style, he didn't look as if he'd slept or ate much for days. Repressing a sigh, she busied herself with making some toast – there was some butter and marmalade in the fridge but not much else. Anticipating that Sherlock wouldn't sleep very much longer, she made the tea in a large teapot and poured out three mugs.

He nodded his thanks as he took a mug and a plate of toast from her, and led the way back into the lounge. She sat down with him and took a large gulp of the scalding strong tea before looking at him enquiringly.

"I suppose you now know who killed Greg?"

It probably wasn't the most tactful subject she could have started with, if Mary was right. However, right or not, this was Mycroft Holmes and he didn't betray himself by so much as a twitch, his expression as bland as ever as he regarded his toast before taking a dainty bite.

"We do. His name is Artjoms Judinskas, a Latvian gun for hire. Interpol have been after him for a while now – on a string of serious charges across several European countries. No doubt Sherlock is hoping for a lead, otherwise he would have confronted him by now. For that reason, we have _also_ left him alone. But, please be assured, when the moment is right he _will_ be…detained."

She noted what he very carefully didn't say, and suspected that the Yard would have very little to do with any arrests, for all their investigations. Judging by the cold glint in Mycroft's eye, she doubted the man would even get the chance to reach a normalcell.

"_Good_," she replied, savagely. Normally she didn't approve of Mycroft's methods, but _this_ particular individual didn't deserve any mercy.

"Indeed." It was the mildest of responses, but sounded more than usually fervent for Mycroft, as he sipped his tea, his eyes downcast.

She watched him, trying to conceal her pity. The fact that he was drinking cheap tea out of a chipped mug without even a grimace was one clear clue that he was not himself. The fact that he kept glancing anxiously towards the closed bedroom door was another. His agitation made her heart sink – the news couldn't be good if even _Mycroft_ was shaken.

"So, why do you need to see Sherlock so urgently? Do you have a lead for him?"

She noticed that he kept his face averted, frowning at the carpet by his feet. "It's…probably easier if I tell him first."

"But it's urgent, though? Is – is there some kind of threat aimed at Sherlock himself…?"

Her voice trailed away as he looked up; her breath catching at the unfamiliar expression of fear on his pale face.

"_My God_, Mycroft – what _is_ it?" She put down her tea, half rising in alarm.

He was staring at her as if he'd never seen her before. For a moment, he didn't respond and she wondered if he'd even heard her. When he _did_ speak, his voice sounded odd - strained.

"Molly, I've been looking at some CCTV images from the café, and there's something -."

Whatever he'd been about to say was interrupted by Sherlock. His brother's voice was sharp, cutting cleanly across Mycroft's quieter tones.

"I've been sent another text. Another code."

Mycroft and Molly both stood, turning quickly towards the bedroom. Sherlock was standing in the open doorway, glaring at his phone. He was barefoot and tousled, looking as if he had only just woken up. Molly also noticed that he was barely dressed, his crumpled shirt hanging loose and unbuttoned, which meant the love bite on his collarbone was visible, standing out livid against his pale skin. She wondered if he was even aware of his rumpled state, unlikely though that seemed.

"_Another_ one?" Mycroft's voice was sharp. "When – _precisely_ \- did you receive it?"

Sherlock paused. "It…appears to have arrived late last night, at 11.48. I was – I didn't have my phone on."

At this extraordinary admission, Molly glanced at Mycroft, noting the way his eyes dropped to that revealing red mark on his brother's collarbone. She flushed slightly, but Sherlock made no attempt to conceal it, and his expression was more than a little defiant. Mycroft made no comment, however, merely watching his brother as he frowned at the message on his phone.

Molly's thoughts flew back to the previous evening. She'd been asleep by then, but _surely_ Sherlock hadn't turned his phone off? He _never_ turned it off, as far as she knew, and in any case, she hadn't given much credence to his claim that he'd spent the entire night reorganising his mind palace. She'd assumed that, for at least _part_ of it, he'd been working on the case…and his mobile was his lifeline.

Sherlock muttered to himself, as he navigated to an online bible and searched for the reference. "59030816. It comes from the book of James - chapter 3 verse 8."

He thrust the phone at his brother, who raised his eyebrows at the content and then read it out: "But the tongue can no man tame; it is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison."

Sherlock was pacing up and down, buttoning his shirt with nimble fingers as he did so. "The significant word is _poison_."

Molly swallowed, feeling a stab of nausea in her stomach. "Is this another attempt on John or Mrs. Hudson?"

After another pause, Sherlock shook his head, frowning. "No, I don't think so. This feels bigger than that…" He looked at his brother. "She's escalating it."

"How do you mean?" Molly asked, confused. "Someone else? Or – or _you_, Sherlock?"

"He means she is targeting a _group_ rather than an individual." Mycroft stared back at his brother, his face grim. "A terrorist attack on London? The method? A chemical agent, do you think?"

"Likely. Probably a nerve agent. Easy to transport in package form and a devastating impact."

Mycroft pulled out his mobile then hesitated. "Sherlock, are you _certain_ of this? You _have_ to be certain."

Sherlock didn't answer, but the look on his face seemed to convince Mycroft, who punched a single number into his phone and snapped some terse words down the line. "IOR, all emergency services Metropolitan area. Chemical attack, location and details to follow."

IOR stood for Initial Operational Response – as Molly well knew, having participated in the mass training day that had been organized for London's joint emergency services a few months ago. She found she was gritting her teeth, her fists clenched at her sides. How could they be so _calm_?

Mycroft shut his eyes for a moment, before squaring his shoulders and continuing briskly: "Any idea where we should start looking?"

"_Thinking_," his brother snapped as he resumed his pacing, glaring at the ground.

Molly stood as still as possible, trying not to distract him, even though her heart was beating uncomfortably fast. She was aware of Mycroft, right beside her, quivering with impatience.

Eventually Sherlock looked up at them. "Unless she's got a larger group working with her, she wouldn't be able to manufacture this. Which means it's been stolen from somewhere in the UK -."

"_Porton Down_," Mycroft interrupted quickly. "An insider?"

His brother nodded briskly. "If Porton Down's the source, it could be VX, sarin or tabun. Most likely, sarin – relatively portable and potentially devastating if exposed to the air. If sarin, it'll be in liquid form in a sealed plastic packet. Find out how much is missing."

Mycroft nodded his understanding and tapped some instructions into his phone. "I have a unit based there."

"The question is – where would she release it? It needs to be somewhere significant to _me_," Sherlock muttered. "Somewhere I might go frequently?"

Molly put a hand to her mouth in horror. "Not…_Bart's_?"

The brothers looked at one another, silently considering the implications. Mycroft tapped at his phone again. "I'll send in a team immediately."

Even as he sent the instruction, Sherlock was shaking his head. "I'm…not sure. It _could_ be, but it doesn't _feel_ right. This could be like the West End stores – something more random. Left to chance, perhaps."

"We need to make certain." Mycroft's voice was hard. "The implications of a chemical release at a _hospital_… Unless you can give me a cast-iron reason to recall them..."

Sherlock clutched at his head, muttering. "The _tongue as unruly evil_… The _tongue_… _words_. A _library_? _Lecture theatre_? Or just _theatre_? Where do you hear a lot of _words_ – or speech? _Evil_ speech...? A church? The Houses of Parliament or the Lords?"

Mycroft sucked in a harsh breath, his phone raised in his hand. "Sherlock, I _need to know_ _now_…"

"_No_!" His brother shook his head wildly, staring at the floor. "_No_ – it's _not_ that simple…_oh_! Somewhere that _I_ hear a lot of words…oh, that's clever…_very_ clever… She knows me well…" He looked up at Mycroft, his eyes wide. "It's the _black cabs_. Where else would you hear a lot of words, a lot of 'evil' speech, than from a _cabbie_? She's put it in one – or _some_ – of the black cabs. More likely some, depending on how much is missing – and there's no saying where or when the agent will be released."

Mycroft lowered his phone, staring at his brother in disbelief. "Have you _any_ idea how many licensed black cabs there are in Greater London? Or the chaos on the roads if we put out the word that _every single cab_ should pull over immediately and be evacuated? There'd be _gridlock_!"

"I wouldn't do that anyway," Sherlock pointed out. "If it _is_ sarin, or some other a nerve agent, and it's released in a cab parked in Oxford Street, you'd be exposing pedestrians – and blocking the roads at the same time. Depends on how quickly it dissipates in the air – in the current atmospheric conditions, probably not very quickly."

For a long tense moment, Mycroft's already pale face seemed to grey with age. He shut his eyes again and took a deep breath. When his eyes snapped open again, his smooth cold mask was firmly back in place.

"Can we narrow this down _at all_?"

Sherlock nodded. "We can discount the suburban-only services. It'll be Central London. A small packet could be left by the passenger in the back of the cab, on the floor, possibly tucked under the rim of the seat out of sight and left to chance. If a subsequent passenger stepped on the packet with a sharp heel or stabbed it with an umbrella, the liquid would be released." He paused. "We can't identify the woman, but put out a description of Judinskas – target any cab in the Central London area that has picked up someone with his description within the last 24 hours. I assume you have a mugshot from Interpol?"

Mycroft nodded and turned slightly away as he dialled a number and issued some brusque instructions to the person down the line – Anthea, presumably. He turned back to Sherlock as he disconnected the call. "We need Sherrinford on this. Get him to run Judinskas' mugshot through CCTV images of taxi ranks in the Central London area."

Sherlock nodded, punching a number into his phone. He glanced at Molly. "Ring John. We need him. And Mary. But tell them _not _to take a cab."

"I'll send a car to take them to my office," Mycroft added, quickly.

She nodded, turning towards the bedroom to fetch her mobile. Feeling ridiculously grateful to have something useful to do.

* * *

By the time Molly had updated the Watsons on the situation, thrown on some clothes and scraped her wet hair back into a practical ponytail, Mycroft had heard from his Porton Down team.

"Six packets of sarin," he said tersely, aiming his comment at both Sherlock and Sherlock's phone, which had been set to speaker. "Half a litre in each."

"_Six cabs then_, I assume?" Sherrinford's voice came faintly over the line.

Sherlock grunted in agreement, as he looked intently at some frozen images of CCTV footage on Molly's laptop – presumably Sherrinford had e-mailed them to him. "They wouldn't take the risk of dividing the contents into more bags. No need – six is _quite enough_ to cause chaos. Yes, that's him – _there_. And _there_."

Molly caught a brief glimpse of a couple of street images of a man leaving two different cabs before Mycroft leaned over to look, blocking her view. "Have you got this, Sherrinford? Match the times and locations and text me the taxi numbers." He looked at Sherlock. "Two down, four to go."

Sherlock nodded, looking closely at the grainy image. "See his backpack? He's carrying something in there, so he hadn't finished distributing them when the cameras caught him. We need the routes for any taxis that passed shortly afterwards through..." He leaned even closer, trying to make out a street sign on the later of the two images.

"_Serle Street. Near Lincoln's Inn," _came Sherrinford's calm voice. "_I'm on it_."

Having anticipated that Sherlock might need to leave fairly quickly, she had collected his shoes, socks, jacket and overcoat from the bedroom. She laid them carefully on the sofa before moving away into the kitchen. She gulped down the rest of her rapidly cooling tea as she dialled another number.

Mike Stamford didn't answer his phone immediately, but she persisted until he picked it up, sounding more stressed than she had ever heard him.

"_Molly_? Thank God. All hell has just broken loose here -."

"I know about the IOR," she interrupted quickly. "I just wanted to let you know that I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Will you? _Bless you_, Molly. They're trying to clear as many beds as possible, just in case, and they want me up on the acute wards. You'll probably be the most senior person here, but you can hold the fort, can't you?"

"Of course. Oh, and Mike -," she paused before going on in a rush. "Just – just get the word out to everyone you can –_ don't _travel in the black cabs. You got that? The _black cabs_. OK, bye!"

She disconnected quickly, anticipating his confusion and not wanting to have to answer any awkward questions.

As she went back out into the lounge to get her coat from the rack by the front door, Sherlock was just pulling on his own coat having got dressed with lightning speed. "Forget that moron from Surrey or wherever. Get _Dimmock_," he was saying imperiously to his brother. "Or, better still, get Sally Donovan; she may be pig-headed but she's got brains when she chooses to use them -."

He broke off, freezing at the sight of Molly putting on her coat. "You're going…_out_?"

She noted the shock in his face. He looked utterly nonplussed, as if it had never even remotely occurred to him that she might leave the flat. "I _have_ to – I can't just stay here. I _also _have a job to do."

They stared at one another for a long tense moment.

"To be fair," Mycroft intervened quietly, "she's probably as safe _there_ as anywhere."

Sherlock shook his head, slowly. Molly could tell he was fighting an automatic impulse to stop her leaving. It wasn't necessarily in his nature to tell people what they should and shouldn't do – boss them around, _yes_, but he'd never actually _stopped_ her doing something…

"You need to come with us," he said, suddenly, almost harshly. "I _need _you…"

"To do _what_?" she asked him, gently. "There's nothing _I_ can do that John and Mary wouldn't be _much_ better at. You _know_ that. And Mike needs me at Bart's."

"Come _on_, Sherlock." Mycroft added a little steel to his smooth tone. "I'll call a car for Molly and a man to escort her. We have no more time to waste."

Sherlock stared at her for a moment longer…then with a muttered curse, he swung around abruptly and strode out of the front door. Mycroft and Molly listened to his footsteps cluttering down the stairs. Rather foolishly, Molly found herself considering whether this was the first time that Sherlock had left her flat by the official route.

Mycroft looked at Molly. "My man will ring when the car arrives and come up to fetch you. Don't go outside until then. And once you're at Bart's, stay there until you hear from us. Do _not_ go home by yourself."

She nodded, suddenly unable to speak. Rather surprisingly, he grasped her wrist, giving it a slight squeeze before letting go and turning to the door.

She coughed, managing to choke out some urgent words before he left. "Mycroft, there's something I meant to ask. Just before…you mentioned CCTV at the café. I didn't even know there _was_ any footage of the killer."

He threw her a distracted look over his shoulder. "Not of his face. I'll explain later."

"But what was it that worried you? I _know_ you were worried, Mycroft."

He paused and turned to look at her more directly, his face troubled. "Just… just remember what I said. _Stay put_, no matter what."

She nodded, watching as he hurried out of the flat after his brother.

* * *

Bart's was in a state of heightened alert when she arrived. Despite that, no one had seemed to pay much attention to the sight of an unmarked car driving through security sections all the way to the main entrance.

There was an atmosphere of slight disbelief among the scurrying staff. As a non-emergency specialist cardiac and cancer unit and teaching hospital, Bart's wouldn't normally be on the front line in a major incident. In this case, however, it was not clear what the threat might be or how widespread the outcome, and Bart's had its own role to play as part of the Metropolitan area IOR. If mass casualties tied up the major A&amp;E units in Central London, the hospital might expect to receive at least _some_ urgent cases, so the staff were busy trying to clear some space in the intensive care and isolation units that usually housed chemotherapy patients.

The mortuary was relatively calm by comparison, although that situation might change very quickly if Sherlock didn't manage to locate all six sarin packets before it was too late. A small group of pathology assistants had arrived for the day shift. They were clustered together, talking to one another in hushed voices, rather than getting on with their usual morning tasks. Eyeing them, Molly walked into Mike's empty office, hoping to find that he had left some instructions for the team.

He had. A couple of rather creased pages from the IOR relating to the pathology department were laid out on his desk. They were mostly standard preparations for a large-scale event that might result in increased casualties – clearing the storage areas as far as possible, putting the emergency staff rota into operation, and so on. She also noted that specialist protective suits and masks stored in the hospital basement needed to be transferred to the department, in case they found themselves dealing with victims of a chemical or biological attack. She picked up the phone to check, but Mike had already made the arrangements.

She sank down into Mike's chair, fired up his computer and started a search on sarin and its effects. As her eyes took in the facts, she chewed her lower lip, drawing blood in her agitation.

"Molly? Thank God you're here!" Rosie stuck her head around the corner of the office. "There's hardly anyone around, and I don't know what we're supposed to be doing. Isn't there some kind of protocol?"

Molly glanced at the girl's anxious face and stood up. "Yes, there's an emergency plan to put into place."

She went out into the main office with Rosie. The pathology assistants were hanging around looking uncertain; she assumed the pathologists were up on the wards. Incredible though it seemed, she was probably the most senior person present by virtue of her advanced training; she was certainly the longest-working employee there. She looked them over; most of them she knew very well. She was pleased to see Mariam there, as the next most experienced assistant – a calm and competent presence.

She cleared her throat. "Right. With any luck, we won't get anything down here, but we need to be ready. Protective suits are on their way, and we need to clear as many storage compartments and decontaminate as many examination rooms as possible." She looked at Rosie. "We have an emergency rota to implement – there's a list on Mike's desk. Could you take a look at that and start ringing around the off-duty staff?"

As the young woman nodded and moved towards Mike's office, Molly surprised herself by suddenly saying loudly, "_No_ \- wait a minute!"

As the assistants stopped in their tracks and looked at her, she took a deep breath. _Sod the secrecy_.

"OK, here's the thing. I don't know how much you've heard on the grapevine, but I've… well, I've got some background info on what we're facing. It's a nerve agent – sarin."

"Like on the Tokyo subway?" Rosie asked, her white face seeming to get paler.

Molly nodded. "It hasn't been released yet, and it may not be. There are people working on tracking it down, and I hope… But anyway, public transport might be affected, so only those who think they can get here by walking or cycling should do so. We'll manage without them if necessary. And – and don't go out anywhere, even if your shift is up. Stay put until we hear something definite. Find somewhere to sleep if you've been working overnight, but _don't_ go out."

She looked around at the attentive faces, noting their tacit acceptance of her instructions. "OK. Let's get to work."

* * *

The first news came in fifty minutes later. Molly, passing through the main office, saw that a number of people were clustering around a laptop, on which the BBC News channel was being broadcast live.

Emily Maitliss was on the screen, her face grim. "_The Prime Minister is appealing for calm as a state of emergency has been declared across Central London_ –."

The screen shifted from the newscaster to show scenes of emergency vehicles entering Regent's Street from the Piccadilly Circus end before focusing in, first on a police officer leading away a woman who was clutching a scarf to her mouth, and then on a covered body on a trolley being wheeled into an ambulance. Figures in Hazmat suits mingled incongruously with crowds of shoppers being moved in the opposite direction, many of them sobbing and visibly frightened.

Maitliss's voice continued over the chaotic scenes, cool and precise by comparison. "_The surrounding areas of the West End are being cleared as a precautionary measure, but David Cameron has confirmed that there is no evidence to suggest that the gas leak is anything other than an isolated incident. People currently in the area are being asked to stay indoors and ring the emergency number at the bottom of this screen if they experience any of the following symptoms_…"

"Bloody hell…" breathed Rob, one of the night porters, who had been helping move some gurneys. "Of all places – _Regent's Street_…"

"_Three down, three to go_," thought Molly silently as she listened to Maitliss giving details of the approximate casualty figures, clearly pretty vague and speculative at this stage. It wasn't clear that the agent had been publicly identified yet. Aloud, she said: "Regent's Street, so they'll take the injured to UCH and St. Mary's first. Or perhaps out to Central Middlesex. We won't see any, I shouldn't think."

"There's some walk-in emergency services around SoHo too," Mariam reminded her, quietly. "They'll be deluged by the worried well, I bet. And the ambulance service must be struggling."

Molly nodded, her heart sinking at the thought of another sarin package being released somewhere else in the city. She wondered whether it was worth mentioning that this might be only the first of several attacks.

Rob snorted in disgust, turning away. "Makes you wonder how organised we'd be if there was ever a _real _emergency in this country."

_What do you call this, then_? Molly felt like saying, but restrained herself with an effort. Rosie rolled her eyes comically in Molly's direction before following Rob.

Molly turned back to her job…and then stopped. _There had been something…something about that expression… Where had she seen that expression before…?_

Her eyes went back to the clumsy young woman, loping off with her usual dog-like energy, her tied-back hair currently dyed dark purple bouncing on her back. Just as she went through the door into the cold room, Rosie glanced quickly over her shoulder in Molly's direction…and again, Molly had the strangest sense of déjà vu. Rosie paused, giving her a quizzical smile before disappearing.

Molly rubbed her eyes, suddenly weary. _Why_ had Rosie's eye roll confused her? She'd been working for the woman for weeks now and Rosie was lively and good-humoured, often pulling comical faces. So _why_ did she suddenly feel that she'd seen that expression in quite another context?

She shook herself briskly. A strong coffee was all that she needed; it'd been a long time since that mug of cold tea this morning, and she'd not been eating or sleeping all that well since Greg's death. She glanced around, but couldn't see any immediate problems - everyone was focused on their tasks and the mortuary was as ready as it could be for any sudden influx.

Standing in the little staff kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil, she pulled her mobile out of her lab coat pocket. She'd left it on silent mode, in clear contravention of work rules, but she had been hoping that Sherlock or John, or even Mycroft, might think to keep her informed of the latest situation. She had to assume that Mycroft's team had already tracked down and neutralised the two packages in the taxis that Sherrinford had identified via CCTV. The alternative was too grim to consider. What if the Regent's Street package _hadn't _been a third one – what if it had been one of the identified taxis...and what if Sherlock had rushed off in his usual manner and had been busy trying to retrieve it when the toxic contents were released right in front of him?

She glanced at her screen. Sure enough, there was a text from John, which had been left ten minutes' ago:

**Didn't get to R St in time, but 1 more located near Greenwich. 2 to go.  
**

She shut her eyes briefly, trying to calm her mind. So…one more was accounted for, plus the one that had been set off in one of the busiest shopping streets in London, causing goodness knows how many deaths and serious injuries The other two could be _anywhere_. And he hadn't mentioned Sherlock.

Even as she opened her eyes again, another message popped up:

**S thinks found another – Camden. He says stay where you are. You OK?  
**

She let out a tense breath and leaned back against the sink, smiling a little. How like John to pick up on Sherlock's concern and immediately be worried about her, even in the middle of a crisis! She began to compose a reply:

**All qui**

Sweat prickled at the base of her spine and she suddenly felt as if she was about to be sick. Her hand went limp and the phone clattered to the floor. It was relief. That was all. Sherlock was alright and there was only one left to locate…

"Phew! Thought we'd never be done moving all those trolleys!" Rosie clattered into the kitchen in her usual noisy manner. "It's all cleared and disinfected now, and the protective gear is in place just in case. _Hey_ \- you OK, Molls?"

She made an effort to compose herself, swallowing and breathing deeply to dispel the nausea. "Fine. Just - just the situation. You know."

She started to bend to retrieve her phone, but Rosie was ahead of her, grabbing it and passing it over immediately.

"Thanks." Looking at the screen, she saw that her half-composed message had disappeared – she must have pressed Send by accident, or possibly Rosie had.

"I know what you mean -," Rosie began, before stopping and frowning at her. "But no, you look _really _weird. Kind of washed out. Come on, sit down…"

"I'll be fine," she protested, but the girl had pulled out a chair and was pushing her into it, with brusque, kindly efficiency. She fetched Molly a glass of water and then crouched by her knee, looking up at her, her soft green eyes wide with concern.

"Not preggers or something are you?"

Molly forced a laugh, slipping the phone back into her pocket. A sip of cold water had cleared her head slightly. "_Hardly_. I'm fine, really. Just one _hell _of a day to pick to come back to work after sick leave."

"Well, you just sit there nice and quiet for a minute while I make you a cuppa." Rosie patted her knee comfortingly and got up. "Let's just shut the world out first, eh?" She shut the door before moving back towards the sink, walking behind Molly. Her voice continued in a light prattle as she moved around the small area. "Coffee? I think tea might be better for you, to be honest. More refreshing. My Mum always used to say that there's nothing that can't be cured by a good cuppa…"

"Mmm?" Molly was only half-listening as she pulled out her phone again. John had replied to her aborted message with a simple "**?**".

She had balanced the phone on her knee and had begun to tap out a fresh reply when she became aware that Rosie had suddenly stopped talking. She had turned her head very slightly towards the girl, when she felt the hard thump across the back of her skull.

Her vision blurred as agonising pain shot through her head in response to the brutal impact. She was vaguely aware of her phone sliding off her knee as she scrabbled hopelessly with numb fingers to clutch at it. And then the world went mercifully black.


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter 38**

Gradually, she became aware of a dull rhythmic thumping sound. It echoed through her aching head, a faint, slow, maddening vibration. As she moved slightly, it increased in volume.

She opened her eyes quickly…only to wince at the hot stab of agony right behind her eyeballs that followed immediately. Closing them again, she swallowed against a heavy wave of nausea. For a moment, she thought she would vomit. She took some long deep breaths - in through the nose, out through the mouth - and felt the nausea recede again. The hard thumping also began to fade, although it still remained to some extent.

As her senses grew clearer, she became aware that she was lying in a hunched-up awkward manner on a wet cold surface. Her cheek was pressed against something rough – tarmac or concrete, she guessed by the acrid smell. She felt damp, freezing cold, stiff and acutely uncomfortable, and her head felt frighteningly painful. The thump was probably her own pulse, echoing in her ears in sulky parallel to the throbbing in her skull.

It was obvious that she'd been knocked out, but the worrying thing was that she'd clearly been unconscious for more than just a couple of minutes, judging by her stiffness and dry mouth. Someone had dumped her on the ground in a careless manner, not bothering to position her more comfortably, but they also had to have been certain that she wouldn't wake up too quickly. Had she been _drugged_ – and if so, with _what_? She could feel some minor pain in her thigh and guessed she might have been injected with something there.

Trying to assuage the icy little knot of fear that was forming in her stomach, she wriggled her fingers and toes, breathing a sigh of relief when they moved normally. If she _had_ been given something, it was wearing off at least. Another plus was that she didn't appear to be restrained in any way…which seemed odd. Unless she had been put in a location from which she couldn't possibly escape…?

Opening her eyes again, she tried to look around her immediate vicinity without moving too much. There was no sign of anyone else, but she could see grey scudding clouds above and ascertained that she was in the open air. Judging by the wind chill and the lack of traffic sounds, she was probably quite high up and in a large space…which would go some way to explaining why she felt so cold.

Tentatively, she moved cramped arms and legs, hissing through gritted teeth at the pain spreading across the back of her head as she unwisely rolled onto her back.

"How're you doing there, Molls?"

Focusing on the direction of the voice, she pushed herself into a sitting position and looked around, trying not to move too fast. Even so, her head spun alarmingly. She pushed her knuckles hard into the tarmac to steady herself, and welcomed the mild pain of the rough surface scraping her skin, as it cleared her head slightly. There was some kind of brick structure just behind her, so she shuffled back a little to have something to lean against.

Rosie was sitting a short distance away, on what looked to be a low wall. Her knees were drawn up and she had an open bag on her lap. Not even looking in Molly's direction, she was casually cleaning her face with a wet wipe. Having finished that, she retrieved a compact mirror from her bag and began to apply some lipstick with a slick, professional technique that Molly wouldn't usually associate with the clumsy pathology assistant.

Molly felt the back of her head carefully and winced at the lump she could feel beneath her hair. However, the blow didn't appear to have drawn blood and her memory seemed fine, although she still had no idea how long she'd been unconscious.

"Rosie…?"

Rosie looked over at her, a gleaming smile in place…and Molly realised she was looking at a stranger. "Don't be _stupid_, Molly! Of course I'm not Rosie!"

Molly frowned. The face was essentially the same, but the heavy Goth make-up and artificially white face had gone to be replaced by a lightly tanned face. Even those soft green eyes were now dark brown, their rich beauty accentuated by the brightly painted red lips. 'Rosie' was no longer the young clumsy but eager girl Molly remembered, but a self-assured and beautiful woman in her early thirties.

She smiled, seeming amused by Molly's confusion. "_Still_ no idea? Would losing the accent help?"

She had swapped her chippy Mancunian accent for a smoother Irish drawl. She turned slightly towards Molly, dropping her head to one side and looking at her from beneath her lashes in a flirty manner. And, in a flash, Molly remembered her.

"_Janine_!"

The woman nodded, as if in approval. "Good disguise, wasn't it? There were times when I wondered if you'd realise. Lucky that Sherlock never saw me. Of course, I can't do much about the hair dye, but that'll wash out soon enough." She had taken down the pony tail and brushed her hair out, over her shoulders.

Molly pushed herself up more fully, feeling rough cold brick on her back. "Are we… where are we?" She looked around and her heart sank into the pit of her stomach. "Is – is this the roof? Is this where he…?"

"Who's 'he'? Do you mean Sherlock? Or are you referring to my brother?"

"Your _brother_? _Jim_…was your _brother_?"

Molly leaned her bruised head very carefully back against the brick and stretched her arms and legs, trying to get some feeling back into them. She eyed Janine warily as she did so, trying to recall all she could of the woman who she'd seen only once, albeit for several hours, and had never actually spoken to. The pretty bridesmaid been a strong focus for Molly's attention at the wedding, mainly due to her obvious affinity with Sherlock. Molly recalled a bubbly, easy-going young woman with a smile for everyone – and she remembered also that no one had seemed to know an awful lot about her, only that she was a 'nice girl'. Presumably Mary must know her much better, if she'd been her chief bridesmaid? Molly didn't recall Janine ever coming up in conversation, though.

And then, after that, nothing until those awful tabloid articles, and she recalled the sense of contempt she had felt for anyone who could tell such lurid, repellent lies for the sake of money.

"_Half_-brother, to be strictly accurate," Janine said, as she put her bag on the floor and stood up on the little wall she had been perched on. "We shared a mother. I never met my father - and I last saw my mother when I was two years' old, so never got a chance to ask her - but I'm guessing _he_ wasn't White Irish, although _she_ was. I've no idea who _Jim's_ father was either. I never knew him." She stared at the ground by her feet. "When I turned eighteen, they told me I had a brother. They couldn't tell me where. His choice, they said. They told me I should never attempt to see him - that it wouldn't be a good idea - but I never understood _why_."

"I'm sorry about that," Molly said, carefully. She had no idea who 'they' were, but she could make an educated guess. Jim must have been trouble by then, even if he had never been charged with the death of that boy Sherlock found out about. Naturally, Social Services would have wanted to warn his younger sister to keep away from him. And who knew what had happened to their mother by then? If Sherlock was right, she'd probably died a few years after Janine's birth.

Janine didn't react to her comment, didn't even seem to hear it. She appeared to be in her own world for a moment. It occurred to Molly that there was nothing to stop her from attacking the woman or running away, but something – some instinct - made her hesitate. There was a _reason_ why Janine hadn't tied her up and didn't seem overly concerned about watching her carefully. Molly eyed the blank windows opposite. Was there a sniper with a gun trained on her at this very minute, ready to shoot if she made any move?

She took a shaky breath. She was desperate to look around and get a better idea of her surroundings, but at the same time, she dared not take her eyes off Janine – partly because she was unsure what the woman would do next and partly because she didn't want to give away the direction of her thoughts. Janine seemed to guess anyway, as she shook her head, looking amused.

"_Really_, Molly? Did you _really_ think I would make it _that_ easy for you to escape?" She jerked her head towards something to the extreme right of Molly's vision, and she turned to see a shallow flight of steps leading downwards towards a sunken door, about fifteen feet behind her. "_There's_ your exit, but I wouldn't try it if I were you. My colleague is positioned just the other side of that door with a gun pointing at it. And _this_ time, he won't miss."

"_This_ time…?" Molly queried, but if Janine heard her, she didn't respond – merely turning her attention to the ground in front of her feet

Molly noticed suddenly that Janine had changed her shoes – exchanging scuffed trainers for elegant stilettos, the long spikes more than half the length of her feet. They looked excruciatingly uncomfortable to wear and Molly was pretty sure that she'd be flat on her bottom the moment she tried to walk in them. However, Janine seemed perfectly at ease as she took a few graceful steps along the low wall.

She regarded Janine's beautiful profile. What had happened to her over the years? How had she managed to become this apparently carefree young woman despite such a bad start in life? Or _had_ she? It began to look as if this happy persona was just an act – like 'Rosie' had been.

"Who's Rosie?" she asked, suddenly.

Janine directed her smile at the ground as she paced. "I wondered if you would ask. Yes, she _does _exist. She's my foster sister, a few years' younger than me. It just so happens that she's taken a year out – gone abroad to do voluntary work – and she left her paperwork with me, which turned out to be _very_ handy. She's the one with the Biological Science degree – and yes, she does want to train to be a doctor when she gets back. She's not a Goth; that was just a useful disguise to hide the fact that I'm obviously not in my early twenties."

"So, you're not a pathology assistant after all?"

Janine waved her hand casually. "I took part of a chemistry degree, so I know the basics, but I dropped out. It just wasn't _me_. I moved down to London, went into PR instead. Ended up working for Magnussen." She paused, reflectively. "I thought I'd been very clever to land that job with him three years' ago. Looking back, I guess _he_ must have been after _me _because of my connection to Jim. Still…it turned out to be quite useful in the end. I met some _interesting_ individuals through working with him. Computer hackers, anarchists, criminals, people with something to hide… He draws them in, you see. Slowly but surely…like a _spider_… You…" she paused, and Molly noticed that her hands were shaking slightly. "You _think_ you're in control, but suddenly you wake up one day and _he's_ the one holding all the cards. He told me that he could help me find my brother. It seemed like a good deal at the time…"

She broke off and turned her back to Molly, gazing out at the building opposite. When she spoke again, her voice had stopped trembling. "Oh, by the way, we _are_ on the roof at Bart's, as you suspected. I suppose you've never been up here."

Molly clenched and unclenched her fists, feeling the blood begin to flow better, although she was still uncomfortably cold in her lab coat on this frigid day. "How did you get me up here? How long was I out?"

"How do you think?" Janine's voice was brisk and airy again – utterly dispassionate. "Laundry trolley in the lift up to the top floor. No one paid any attention – they were all too busy panicking about the gas attack. And _then_, my associate carried you up here. I'm afraid he probably wasn't all that gentle about putting you down. But then again, I had to stuff you into the trolley, and we had to be quick about it. Oh, and you've been out for about forty minutes. I had to inject you with a mild sedative to keep you unconscious for long enough – I couldn't have you coming around in the lift in front of other people, could I?"

Molly realised suddenly that Janine was balancing on the low wall that marked the very edge of the roof; much as Sherlock must have done before his fall. She opened her mouth automatically to shout a warning, but no sound came. Later, much later, she would reflect that it had been an odd response to the situation – surely she should have _wanted_ Janine to fall off, since even at that moment a nasty instinct had been telling her that at least _one_ of them was going to have to before too long. Otherwise, why had she been brought up here?

Janine looked at her over her shoulder, a slightly knowing smile on her face, as if she had once again discerned the direction of Molly's thoughts. "So…what do you think? Is _this_ the spot that he jumped from? Or perhaps over _here_?"

She skipped sideways without looking down, making Molly flinch. Janine laughed. "Come _on_, Molly! You were here, I wasn't. You _must_ know."

She swallowed, trying to moisten her dry mouth. "What makes you think I was here?"

"OK, let's not play games." Janine had turned back and was looking over the edge, quite unconcerned by the drop right in front of her. "Let's establish first of all that _I know everything_. I'll give Magnussen that. Sure, he was a bit of a bastard, but he wasn't kidding when he said he could tell me _everything_ about Sherlock. I know that you helped Sherlock cheat death." She lifted one foot and spun around on the other to face Molly once more, holding her arms and raised leg out in a parody of a ballerina. "So _tell_ me – where _was _he when he did it? I want to get this right."

"I don't _know_. I didn't _see_." She brought her knees up to her chin, trying to rub the feeling back into her calves. She wanted to be ready to move, to defend herself at any moment. She had no idea what the woman had in mind, although she was beginning to develop a horrible suspicion.

Janine put her head on one side and regarded Molly curiously, her arms folded. "I wonder what it is that he sees in you. Look at you – you're _terrified_ at the thought of standing here at the edge. You're such a little _mouse_." She said it almost kindly. "A timid little coward…while _he's _not scared of _anything_. He's just like _me_ – we'd make the perfect pair. And yet, he picked _you_. I wonder why?"

Molly stared back at her, trying to hide her fear with a show of defiance. "Perhaps it's because I love him?"

Janine appeared to consider this perfectly seriously, her head still cocked in thought. "You might be right, at that," she said, eventually. She jumped down from the low edge and strolled towards her.

There was nothing fundamentally evil about Janine's beautiful face. She looked exactly as she had looked at the wedding – a warm, fun-loving young woman. Even her expression seemed benign – kindly even. Which only made her seem more sinister.

Molly tried to reason with her. "Look, Janine, I'm no threat to you -."

Janine laughed, cutting her off. "Of _course_ you're not! You're _nothing_ to me. You're just a means to an end, I'm afraid. I'm sorry, because I _like_ you – I really do – but that's just the way it has to be. You should _never_ have got involved with him."

"But I thought -."

"Oh, did you think I was _jealous_ of you?" Janine leaned against an old chimney a few feet away from Molly, frowning as if in genuine confusion. "You've got the wrong of the stick completely. I'm not _in love_ with Sherlock. I _hate_ him."

There was pure venom in Janine's voice, and her face twisted with a sudden rage that made Molly press against the brick behind her.

"OK, so he used me to get to Magnussen, which was mildly annoying when I worked it out, but I understood that. I'd have probably done the same, and it's not like I cared that much about him anyway – I mean, he's kind of charming in a weird way, if you like that sort of thing, and he looks _really_ sexy in bed, not that _we_ ever got up to anything, in case you were wondering... Back then, it was just my pride that was dented – and I paid him back good and proper with those news articles. But I didn't know the truth _then_. When I _did_…" She trailed away and laughed. "Well, we may as well wait for Sherlock to turn up. Which he _will_…eventually."

Molly's stomach turned to ice. "What makes you think he'll come up here?"

Janine laughed again. "Oh, come _on_, Molly! This is Sherlock. You think he won't work it out? I'm _relying_ on him."

"To – to do what?" Her legs felt weak again; she wasn't sure whether she'd be able to get up quickly even if she needed to.

Janine regarded her seriously. "I think you _know_ what I mean, Molly. Just as you know why we're here. I can see it in your face."

Molly felt freezing cold inside. "You…expect him to _jump_. For _real_, this time."

Janine nodded, her face still perfectly solemn. "Four years ago, he cheated my brother – he _should_ have died that day. It was what Jim wanted. All I'm doing…is finishing what Jim started."

"But – but _why_?" Molly burst out. "I mean – I'm sorry, Janine, about what happened – but you didn't even _know_ Jim! Why would you care what happened between him and Sherlock?"

"Because he was _my brother_!" she shouted, her pretty face suddenly hideously twisted with a mad rage. "He was all I had left! And I _would_ have had him too, if it hadn't been for _Sherlock_. He – he _taunted_ him! Played a cruel game with him for _years_."

"What?" Molly struggled to her feet, no longer cautious. "What do you mean? He – he _didn't_… It was _Jim_ who was playing games on _Sherlock_, not the other way around…"

Janine was shaking her head vehemently. "No, _no_, that's just what he _wants_ you to believe. Him – _and _his brother. And all of them. You think my brother was some kind of murdering psychopath… and _Sherlock_ gets the credit for defeating him."

"But – but that's the _truth_ -."

"No it isn't! It's all _lies_. Of course you'd believe him – he's brainwashed you - but _I_ know the truth. I _have_ the truth – in _here_." She tapped the side of her head. "Magnussen taught me how to use my brain to remember everything…and he _told_ me. Not while he was alive. All I knew was that he had information about my brother, and to get it, I had to do whatever he wanted. I'd tried everywhere else, so I had no choice. I hated him, but he was the only one who could help me."

She clenched her fists. "After I was attacked, the night Sherlock was shot – that was the last straw. I left Magnussen – took my money and got out. I thought that was it and I'd never find my brother… But then, when Magnussen died, he left something to me. He'd made written records – he didn't need them himself, but they were to be released after his death." She paused, shaking her head bitterly. "His last little bit of revenge, I suppose. He'd never _really_ meant to help me, only to torment me. But that doesn't matter. The records told me everything. I'd heard all about Jim in the papers, of course – the lies they printed about him - but I had _no idea_ he was my _brother_…"

"Look, I can imagine the shock," Molly tried to placate the woman. "Finding out you're related to a killer -."

"Don't _call_ him that! Don't you _dare_!"

Molly shut her mouth in shock as Janine screamed the words out. She watched as the woman began to pace up and down, clearly agitated.

"Jim was _never_ a killer by nature! He was dragged into it by Sherlock. He got into trouble when he was younger – just minor things. What do you expect? He was ripped away from our mother when he was just eight years old, and _no one_ cared about him. Have you any idea what it's like being brought up in care? Being taken away from your mother with no idea why? I'm not saying Jim was completely innocent, but it was just petty crime, a bit of robbery, some drug dealing…until he came into contact with Sherlock. My brother should have been pitied, helped to reform…instead of being turned into some kind of murderous monster by the press!"

Molly could hardly bring herself to feel any sympathy for the evil psychopath Janine was discussing. Having met the cold-eyed man and been manipulated by him herself, she couldn't see the vulnerable, abused boy that his sister was clearly visualising. It was quite possible that he _had_ been abused in the past, or ignored at the very least, but there was more to Moriarty's make-up than that. First of all, it was more than just petty crime he'd been involved in before he'd met Sherlock. And Janine's version of events didn't explain why he'd killed so many people and had appeared to enjoy it. Or the way he'd tortured Sherlock, threatening the lives of three innocent people. But what had Janine been told by Magnussen and how influential had his words been? The man was a newspaper magnate, a powerful man. What lies had he been able to twist to his advantage?

"How do you know all this?" she asked, cautiously.

Janine waved an arm. "Evidence. Files and files of it. All researched by Magnussen over many years. Do you know who _really_ caused all the deaths? Do you know who was really responsible for the breaks into Pentonville, the Bank of England, the Tower of London?" She gestured wildly as she talked. "_Sherlock_. _All_ of it. I have photos, transcripts of phone calls, e-mails between the two of them. He _knew_ my brother was obsessed with him and he – he _flattered _him. Told him that he'd give him money if he did what he told him. They'd share the money that Sherlock got for solving the cases."

Molly's mouth dropped open at this insane logic. "Why on _earth_ would he do that?"

"_Boredom_!" Janine declared confidently. "The ordinary cases were getting him down. He needed an arch-enemy to give him an interest. He found _Jim_ and turned him into what he needed. _Look_ – he was able to solve all those cases, and suspiciously easily too. Made him look pretty good, didn't it? Turned him into some kind of national hero. And all the time, he was paying Jim to do it! Him, or his brother – they were _both_ in on it. His brother probably wanted to keep him out of trouble. Magnussen said that Sherlock was an addict by nature, so his brother probably tried to encourage something to replace the drugs."

She continued to pace as Molly stared at her in disbelief. "But then Sherlock went too far, didn't he? Kidnapped those children – _that_ was supposed to be blamed on Jim too, but Sherlock got found out when the girl saw him and screamed. And Jim knew he had to put an end to it. He _wanted_ to get out. He _wanted_ to find me – there's e-mails to Social Services; I've seen them. He made enquiries about me. He wanted a fresh start. So he lured Sherlock up here, onto the roof. See, he _still_ cared about Sherlock, despite it all. He wanted to give Sherlock an easy way out - a chance to kill himself before it went too far, before he could be arrested, convicted, publicly shamed. I _heard_ the conversation – Jim recorded it. He wanted to use the evidence to clear his name. Magnussen managed to get hold of the recording after Jim died. And I heard Sherlock's voice. He _was_ going to jump. He said 'Thank you. Bless you.' He was _grateful _to Jim. But then there was a struggle and a gun went off."

She sighed. "He tricked Jim. My brother should _never_ have trusted him in the first place. He turned on him – Jim had brought the gun just to defend himself, but Sherlock must have got hold of it and shot him then staged a suicide. And his older brother took my brother's body away and hushed it all up. Didn't even give him a decent funeral. Planted all those false stories about Jim in the press. He even approached _Magnussen_ – paid him to print the lies in his papers."

She stopped pacing, fixing Molly with a hard stare. "_That's_ why Sherlock has to die."

There was something a little _off_ about her face now – she was no longer the conventionally pretty dark-eyed woman she had seemed. On the surface, she was just the same, but her mouth worked in an odd way and one of her eyelids kept twitching. Molly's heart sank. Their mother had apparently had psychiatric problems, and Jim had certainly seemed psychotic…

She drew in a deep breath, trying to think quickly. She'd done a unit on forensic psychiatry on her medical course; apart from that, she had limited knowledge of psychotic behaviour. From what she could see, Janine seemed very similar to Jim, with the ability to appear utterly charming but an equal tendency to switch between lucidity and insane, murderous rage within seconds.

And then there was the way she'd taken the clearlydoctored information provided by Magnussen and believed it utterly, without apparent question. It was pointless trying to reason with such twisted logic – trying to point out just how much of the 'evidence' could have been fabricated. Even a recording of their conversation, if one had ever existed, could easily have been edited with the right software.

"What makes you think Sherlock will come?" she said, slowly. "After all, he wouldn't want to fall into the same trap twice, would he?"

Janine nodded her head, appearing to approve of Molly's logic. "That's why _you're_ here. You see, there was one thing that Jim was wrong about. He threatened Sherlock with the deaths of the three people who meant the most to him – he wouldn't have _really_ done it, of course, but Sherlock couldn't have known that. But he picked the wrong targets. There's one person that Sherlock has always cared about more. One person that he would _definitely_ die for."

Molly forced a laugh, attempting to sound casual despite her despair. "Oh, _come on_, Janine. He doesn't love me _that_ much. It's – it's mostly one-sided, really."

Janine regarded her with contempt. "Either that's an extremely poor attempt at a bluff or you _really_ don't know him that well."

"I'm _telling_ you," Molly said, as firmly as she could. "He won't walk into any kind of trap. Why _would_ he, when he knows you're probably going to kill me anyway? What would be the advantage, why would he be so - so _illogical_?"

"Because he _loves_ you, you _stupid_ woman!" Janine screamed, before turning away, furiously striding the width of the roof. "I _knew_ he loved you even before I even found out about Jim. Your stupid little stunt with the chatroom didn't fool _me_."

"So _you_ were VaticanCameos." She didn't know how she could still feel surprise. It seemed a minor point, compared with what else she had heard.

Janine rolled her eyes. "Yes, of _course_ I was, but that's not the _point_. You probably saw the stories I had published – raunchy sex seven times and night, and all that. They were fun to write, but not even _remotely_ true. He couldn't get it up when he was with me – didn't even try, to be honest. But we shared a bed for a few nights, and he used to talk in his sleep. Just muttering, and I couldn't make it out, but he'd say a woman's name from time to time, very clearly. And it certainly wasn't _mine_.

"But – but _that_ -," Molly burst out, before she could stop herself. She had been about to say that it'd been before Sherlock had told her he loved her; around the time that he'd derided her for not sticking with Tom. Had he _genuinely_ not realised he had feelings for her back then? Or had he been trying to repress them for her sake?

Janine gave her a wry look. "I didn't know who 'Molly' was at the time, but after Magnussen died, your name came up quite frequently in the documents he left me. Then, when you logged into that chatroom, I recognised it right away. With the name 'Mollythecat' and saying that you knew him…it was too much of a coincidence. I knew that Sherlock was trying to use you to find out who was behind the telecommunications hack. It was pure luck having Rosie's qualifications handy so I could apply for that job here at Bart's immediately afterwards…"

She smiled and went back to leaning casually against the disused chimney stack, as if waiting for his arrival. "Oh yes, he'll come alright. He'll do _anything_ for his beloved Molly… Of course," she went on, almost dreamily. "It's probably better this way. Better if he _sees_ you die before he joins you."

She caught Molly's eye. "Oh yes, you _are_ going die too. Didn't I mention it before? You're supposed to be dead already. First the bomb. We couldn't plant it at your flat – Mycroft Holmes appears to have it under permanent observation. So it had to be John and Mary. We'd been watching you, so we knew your visiting patterns." She paused. "_That_ would have killed two birds with one stone, wouldn't it? You _and _John…"

"And _Mary_? And _Ellie_?" Despite the situation, Molly was outraged by the woman's callousness.

Janine laughed. "Oh, don't fall for all the 'chief bridesmaid' crap. She's no friend of mine. You _do_ realise her name's not Mary at all? And she's no innocent little nurse. Oh no, 'Mary' has a past to hide. Magnussen had her in his sights. She didn't have many friends when she moved to London to make a new life for herself, so he made me befriend her. He wanted me to keep an eye on her. She was _desperate_ for any kind of friend, so she latched onto me…it was quite sad, to be honest. Ironic that she ended up falling for _John_, of all people… And why should _I_ care about her baby?"

"And – and what about all the innocent people you killed?" Molly remembered that poor policeman who had died very close to her in the explosion.

"Yes, and what about all the innocent people that Sherlock made my brother kill?" Janine retorted, her voice hardening. "Did _he_ care about them? Anyway, it didn't work, so we had to try again."

Molly closed her eyes and whispered. "_Greg_? That was supposed to be _me_?"

"Judinskas' mistake." Janine's voice was calm, dispassionate. "He was standing in the doorway, with his other hand on the door handle. Just as he pulled the trigger, the door was pulled out of his hold by someone trying to leave. His arm was jerked off-course."

"_Oh my God_," she whispered, her eyes still closed. _Poor Greg_… "It should have been _me_. _That's_ what Mycroft saw on the CCTV, that's what he was worried about this morning…"

Janine continued, as if she hadn't heard her. "And then poor old Mrs. Hudson. I did feel a bit bad for that. She was OK, was Mrs. H. Seemed to like me. It was another mistake, of course. Judinskas saw you at the funeral, lost sight of you, and then saw you again just outside Baker Street…or he saw the _coat _you were wearing anyway. And he botched it. She fought back, so his aim wasn't as deadly as it was supposed to be." Janine shook her head in a parody of grave disapproval. "He's not all that clever really. Useful, though. And usefully under Magnussen's control…and now mine. It wasn't just _Sherlock's_ secrets that he bequeathed to me..."

Her voice trailed away and she gave Molly a wry smile. "So, actually, it's worked out quite well. How better to destroy Sherlock then to make you jump _before_ him. _Make him watch_…"

Molly glanced towards the edge of the roof and felt cold sweat dripping between her shoulder blades. She _couldn't_ do it. She'd sooner be shot in the head by Judinskas than have to stand on the edge, look down at the ground far below and leap out into nothing…

She swallowed. "What makes you think," she said, carefully, "that Sherlock will jump, just because _I _have? If – if I'm already dead, what does he have to lose? You wouldn't be able to convince him."

"Oh, he'll jump," Janine said, calmly. "He'll have no choice. You'll find out soon enough."

"Not if your friend down there shoots him first."

Janine laughed. "Judinskas? _He's_ no match for Sherlock. I expect Sherlock will kill him before he can pull the trigger. In fact, I'm _depending _on it. He's outlived his usefulness."

"Sorry to disappoint you," drawled a third voice, suddenly. "I'm afraid he's very much alive and currently helping the police with their enquiries. _Well_…when I say the _police_…"

Molly closed her eyes briefly, her heart stuttering with a strange mixture of hope and despair at the familiar deep tone.

Janine walked towards the exit, looking down the stairwell and smiled. "I'm _disappointed_ in you, Sherlock! I expected you _far _earlier than this. Come on up and join us."


	39. Chapter 39

**Dear friends, I am SO sorry to keep you waiting so long! This was one of those chapters that took ages and I then had to take it apart as it went on too long. **

* * *

**Chapter 39**

"Come on up, Sherlock," Janine called. "Molly is fine, as you can see…for the moment, anyway."

Sherlock's quick footsteps sounded on the steps and then he appeared, walking straight past Janine as if she wasn't there. His eyes immediately fell on Molly, clearly assessing her condition and current situation. She gave him a weak smile, trying to convey an apology with her eyes.

He seemed as calm and disinterested as ever, but there were little signs for those who knew him well enough – a tension in his posture, a tight set to his lips and an intensity in his gaze, from eyes that had never looked quite so blue to her. He was smartly put together as usual, as if he hadn't been spending the day dashing around London searching for toxic packages. She was grateful to get visual confirmation that he was unharmed, even if part of her still wished fervently that he hadn't turned up at all. She drank in his appearance eagerly - thirstily…quite unable to take her eyes off him as Janine walked back towards them. Judging by the way his own eyes lingered, he had experienced the same fear of never seeing her again.

Janine cut across the moment by speaking with the brisk air of one finally getting down to business. "I was going to save my story until you arrived, but I've filled Molly in now. And I imagine I don't have to repeat it to you anyway?"

Sherlock took his eyes off Molly with an air of obvious reluctance to give Janine a wry glance. "I've worked out the gist of it…rather later than I would have liked to, unfortunately. It was Mycroft who spotted the vital clue. Once I realised that Molly had _always_ been the target, then everything fell into place... _Most_ annoying to be over-shadowed by one's older brother… By the way -," he added casually, as if it were of absolutely no importance whatsoever. "- we've located five sarin packets so far. Where have you put the sixth?"

Janine's gleaming smile grew wider. "You _see_?" she asked, turning to Molly with girlish enthusiasm. "You wondered what incentive I could use to make Sherlock follow you over the edge of the building? I _told_ you you'd find out soon enough."

She pulled a small dart gun out of the pocket of her lab coat and strolled towards a ventilation shaft, briefly glancing into it. "Don't worry," she said, as she fixed a dart in place. "I'm not going to shoot _you_ – nothing so pedestrian. You _will_ jump – _both_ of you. Because, if you _don't_… I'll use this dart to puncture the packet of sarin lying right at the bottom of this ventilation shaft. Which – in case you hadn't realised - will release the gas into the hospital ventilation… Of course," she added, casually, "it's not likely to reach every department before the toxicity disperses, as it's only a small quantity. But here's the really _interesting_ thing – it'll reach _some_ of them. And we can't predict which." She gave a little laugh that sounded quite insane to Molly's ears. "Isn't it _fun_?"

Molly sucked in a sharp breath. Sherlock shot her a warning look before focusing on Janine again.

"I see." His voice was preternaturally calm. "So _that's_ where the last one is."

She gave him another gleaming smile. "Congratulations, by the way. I hear that you managed to find four out of the five in time. Shame about the one that did go off. Although, they _were_ just a distraction. Still…very impressive."

Sherlock looked unimpressed. "I've had tougher challenges. Your brother had more imagination."

Molly gritted her teeth; was it _really_ a good idea for him to taunt Janine – what if she lost her temper and punctured the bag anyway? But Janine simply continued smiling angelically at him.

"Oh, there's much more that I _could_ do. I have contacts – you wouldn't _believe_ my contacts. Fortunately, unlike my brother, I'm not interested in continuing 'the game' any longer. I only ever had one purpose – to get rid of _you_. Once I know for _certain_ that you are dead and haven't just faked it again – and I _will_ know, Sherlock - I'll happily pass on all I know to your _own _dear brother. He'll be very interested in my information; Magnussen knew a _lot_. Major financial fraud in the City, terrorist groups operating out of this country, a huge paedophile ring that goes all the way to the top…" She nodded, happily. "Oh yes, I'll be _very_ valuable to your brother. Whatever he may feel about me, he'll _have _to protect me."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Are you _sure_ about that? You say you want a quiet life _now_, but you've told me that before – remember? Last time we met, you were going to buy that cottage in Sussex. And _now_ look at you. How many deaths have you been responsible for since January – and all just to get revenge on _me_?" He gave her an odd smile, his eyes glittering. "Intoxicating, isn't it? At first, it's a shock and you think 'how could I have done that?' But then you get _used _to it, and then it's the next killing, and the next… And suddenly, they're just _ants_ – aren't they?" He gestured towards Molly without looking in her direction. "They're _nothing_ to do with you and me. Very soon, you find that you think _no more_ about killing _them_ than you would about…stamping on a spider or pouring boiling water over an ant infestation."

She lifted her chin and stared back at him, her eyes glittering in that same strange manner. There was a charged moment between the two of them; Sherlock and Janine were focused purely on one another, as Molly felt oddly excluded from the matter.

"It _is_ true," Janine acknowledged at last, an odd note in her voice. "I didn't think I could do it at first. When that security died at the store break-in, I _was_ sorry. I think I was appalled. But…but it's as if…the more victims there _are_, the more remote they seem. They stop having individual stories…"

Sherlock nodded in apparent understanding. "They're just little people, leading little lives. They don't matter. I remember telling your brother once 'people have died'. And he said 'that's what people _do_'. He believed, you see, that the _little people don't matter_."

He sighed, as if in fond reminiscence, as Molly fought to keep the surprise from showing on her face. This was new information to her, as Sherlock had never discussed his interactions with Moriarty, but she couldn't understand why he sounded so…regretful? And what did he mean by 'little people' not mattering? Why was his face so open and sympathetic as he addressed Janine? She knew him to be a good actor, but she'd never seen such a _kindly_ expression on his face.

Instinct made her keep as still and quiet as possible, trying not to draw Janine's attention. Sherlock must have some sort of plan; she needed to trust him. Her eyes went to the exit…so near, and perhaps she could make a run for it – but what if Janine fired that dart into that evil little package? How could she forgive herself if any patients or staff died?

And, in any case, how could she leave Sherlock alone? She glanced nervously at the office building opposite – was there a sniper somewhere? It might have just been her imagination, but she felt certain she could see something dark in one of the grey, blank-eyed windows. A tiny figure? A man training a gun at her at this very minute, or worse, Sherlock?

Sherlock's attention was still focused exclusively on Janine, his tone low and confiding. "The truth is…people like you and I don't _need _the little people, do we? There's _no point_ in continuing to hurt them. We don't _care_ about them, so killing them means _nothing_. It's _pointless_. That's the truth of it. So…don't you think we should just leave them out of this from now on?"

Janine stared at Sherlock, a complicated expression flitting over her face. She shook her head slowly.

"I…haven't seen you since that day in the hospital," she said at last. "I forget… I didn't hate you before, but I - I didn't know what you'd done to _Jim_ back then…"

There was a suspended moment in time, while Janine and Sherlock gazed at one another and Molly held her breath…a moment where the outcome could have gone either way. For the first time Molly sensed some element of uncertainty in Moriarty's sister…

…And then it passed. Janine shook her head more emphatically. "I had forgotten how persuasive you can be." Her voice was harder – brisk and unregretful. "It's no good, Sherlock. I've made my decision. You've got to jump. It's only just to Jim's memory."

Molly sagged slightly. And yet, she'd hardly believed that Sherlock would have been able to talk Janine out of puncturing that bag. Janine was far to obsessed with her perception of injustice. But Sherlock must have seen that too…in which case, why had he wasted his energy on trying to convince her otherwise?

Briefly, she wondered uneasily whether Sherlock had simply been wasting time, perhaps to give her time to flee. But he hadn't given her any subtle signals…and again surely Janine would have fired that gun?

"And Molly?" Sherlock's expression and tone had changed to match Janine's hard business-like manner. "If your objective is to avenge Jim by destroying me - well, _congratulations_! Here I am!" He threw his arms wide. "_Here_, at your mercy. If you want me to jump, I'll jump. But Molly didn't hurt Jim. Let her go without harm and I'll die."

Molly was unable to completely stifle her bitten-off cry of protest at Sherlock's words, but Janine was already shaking her head again.

"Sorry. No deal. Before you die, I want you to know how it _feels_ to lose someone you -." She paused, giving a bitter laugh. "I was about to say 'love', but after all, how do I know if I would have loved him? I didn't have the chance to find out. Perhaps I should say 'losing someone who matters to you'. Because he _did_. My brother was all I _had_, my only family…and I didn't even get to have him, did I. Thanks to _you_."

She tightened her grip on the dart gun. "So – that's it. No more discussion." Her attention turned to Molly and she nodded jerkily at the low wall that marked the edge of the roof. "Right…_you_ – get over there."

Molly stared at her in disbelief. It seemed utterly mad that Janine _actually_ expected her to just walk calmly across the rooftop and stand on the edge. _Ridiculous_. _Crazy_. As if she could even move a single limb, when she suddenly felt as if they had all turned to jelly… A cold prickle of sweat trickled down her spine and her head swam, Janine's face fading into fog briefly before appearing again. She closed her eyes, breathing hard against nausea and sheer panic.

She opened her eyes again, striving to speak normally. "Oh, _come on_, Janine, be reasonable. You can't _possibly_ expect me to do that! It's – it's absurd!" _It's like something out of a TV show_, she wanted to say to them, _some kind of melodramatic plot that has nothing to do with reality_. Only in fiction did people throw themselves off a building because some maniac was threatening to poison a hospital.

Janine gestured with her gun. "You want me to set this off, then? You want that on your conscience?" She shook her head slowly, a knowing smile on her face. "Not _you_, Molly. I _know_ you – you'd never be able to live with yourself."

For the first time, she felt a hot little knot of anger forming. "I think I could probably manage. After all, _I'm _not the one threatening them." She forced a hard laugh. "No one would expect me to do something as irrational as kill myself. Only Sh -." She broke off, biting her lip. There was one person who _would_ be mad enough to do it, and that was Sherlock, and only because he could get away with it…

She looked to him for support, but Sherlock was staring at the ground, refusing to meet her eye, and his voice was subdued. "She means it, Molly. She will do it. You – we - have to jump."

She stared at him, hardly able to believe her ears. This was _Sherlock_ – the man of a million quips, the man with an answer to every dilemma, with an escape plan always up his sleeve! Even when Janine had first told her of her intentions, Molly hadn't been able to take it entirely seriously, because _Sherlock_ was there, and he'd _never _let her down, he'd never…

But his shoulders were slumped and his eyes downcast, and she'd never seen him look so defeated…

She opened her mouth, closed it again and cleared her throat. Janine was watching her with a little smile, head slightly on one side, as if waiting for her to make her decision, accept the inevitable.

She opened her mouth again. "I'm a _pathology assistant_," she told the air, not entirely sure which of them she was addressing. "I'm not a – people like me, we just don't… Things like this don't _happen_ to people like me. They don't…"

She looked at Sherlock again – the one who had done the impossible, had jumped off this roof and survived. How _had_ he done it? Some extraordinary feat of organisation, some clever sleight of hand… She hadn't actually _known_ how – all she'd been asked to do was to supply a corpse and identify it as him - and he'd never filled her in on the full plan afterwards. But it _had_ been planned, that was the point. He had stepped onto this very roof back then, knowing full well that he'd have to jump off it, whatever happened to Moriarty. This time, it was different.

"I'm getting _boooored_!" Janine drawled loudly, and suddenly Molly wondered how she could _ever_ have doubted that this woman was related to Jim Moriarty. "If you don't get a move on, I might just release the gas _anyway_ and then shoot you both."

Molly gave Sherlock a desperate look, and this time he met her eye and gave her a slight, barely perceptible nod. Taking a deep breath, she clenched her fists, pressing her knuckles so hard against the rough brick that the skin scraped and broke, although she didn't feel the pain. Pushing off from the wall, she managed to move her foot and step forward.

"_Wait_!"

Molly released a shuddering breath of quite ridiculous relief. But Janine was looking at Sherlock rather than her, and the woman's face was as unyielding as before.

"Tell her where _you_ stood when you jumped before. I want to see where it was… and I want you to know what it must have been like to watch _you_ jump."

Sherlock's eyes were on the gun. "How do I know you won't just fire that the moment I've jumped?"

Janine smiled, an artificial rictus of a smile. "To be fair, you _don't_ know for certain. You'll just have to trust me on this. All you _can_ be sure of is that if you _don't_ jump I definitely _will _fire."

Sherlock stared at her a moment longer before sighing. His shoulders were still slumped and there was defeat in his eyes as he looked at Molly again. She gazed back at him, trying to summon up a small smile of support, but her face felt frozen.

"Come on, Molly." Janine's voice was hard. "You know what you have to do."

Molly swallowed and closed her eyes again. "I – _I can't_… I can't _move_…"

Janine heaved an impatient sigh, as if Molly was simply being difficult. "I suppose you're scared of heights. I should have guessed. You'd better help your little mouse, Sherlock. Go ahead – I'll let you do _that_ at least."

There was the quiet sound of footsteps on the tarmac and then Sherlock was right in front of her, his warm hands on her arms. She opened her eyes and looked up at his face, so close to hers, through a haze of tears.

His fingers tightened on her arms. "I'm so sorry, Molly." His voice was calm, regretful and just loud enough for Janine to hear. "We _have_ to do this. She's given us no choice."

She closed her eyes and smiled stiffly, the muscles in her cheeks feeling atrophied. "I can't stand _there _\- at the edge. I just _can't_. _Please_ don't make me do this."

"I know." He ran his hands down to hers and gripped them tight before raising his voice, addressing Janine. "Will you grant me a request? Let us jump together. If we both have to die…I'd rather it was together."

Molly's eyes flew open again, startled. Sherlock's eyes were focused on her face, his expression warm and softly intimate as if they were the only two people present.

"That wasn't the deal." Janine's voice was hard. "I want you to _watch_ her die – to _suffer_."

"Do you think I'm not suffering already?" Sherlock's voice was very quiet, his eyes not leaving Molly's. "You've already killed someone I loved, even if I didn't realise how much he meant to me until he was dead. You've taken him from me, and now you're going to take _her_ too. Do you think I'd want to go on if she dies? Even _imagining _her death kills me. What difference does it make whether she goes first or not?"

There was a tense silence. Molly kept her eyes on Sherlock's, not daring to look away. Not _wanting_ to look away from the tender gleam in his eyes, the expression of devoted love and fear and sheer devastation that told her that however great an actor he was, he was speaking the absolute truth right now.

"I am _asking _you," Sherlock spoke into the silence, his voice shaking slightly. "Grant me this last wish. _Please_."

There was a pause before Janine responded, her voice sounding distant to Molly's ears. "If that's the only way you can get her to move… then _fine_. I want this over with."

Sherlock stepped back and took Molly by the hand, turning them both towards the edge of the roof. His hand grasped hers so tightly it hurt. He seemed to consider the low wall for a moment before pulling her across the roof at an angle, aiming for a specific point.

Molly stumbled, her legs heavy and lifeless, but Sherlock held her tightly, pulling her arm up to help her keep upon her feet.

Just short of the wall marking the edge of the roof, he stopped, pulling Molly to a halt. She glanced up at him; his eyes were on the windows opposite. Had he seen someone there, hidden behind a blind? Was there a sniper positioned there, to make sure they went through with it?

"Not getting cold feet, I hope?" Janine's voice came from behind.

"Not at all." Sherlock's voice was calm and precise now, the previous emotions muted. "But I hope you won't mind if we say goodbye first?"

Janine signed, sounding almost bored by the whole thing. "Only a minute, though. Or I _will_ fire."

Sherlock turned towards Molly, pulling her towards him as if into an embrace. He framed her face with his hands, lifting it to his own. She stared up at him, trying to focus through blurred vision on the blue of his eyes. Trying to memorise them; to fix them in her mind. Much rather _that_ as a final image than the view of the ground far, far below… She inhaled a lungful of cold air, her body frigid at the thought of stepping off and falling, falling…

Sherlock gave her a reassuring smile. He bent his head as if to kiss her, but his lips landed on her cheek instead…just touching lightly before moving across to her ear. His murmur was barely distinguishable, his warm breath stirring the strands of loose hair as he whispered:

"Close your eyes. Don't be tempted to look. _Trust me_. It's easier that way."

She nodded, automatically closing her eyes. Yes, that made sense - that would make it _much_ easier if she could just follow Sherlock's lead; jump as he jumped. And she _would_ follow him without question, just as she'd always done, from the moment he walked into that laboratory and into her life. Even to death itself, if she had to. She felt oddly calm, as if a decision had finally been made.

She felt the press of warm lips lingering on each closed eyelid…and then he stepped away slightly. She wavered, feeling unsure, but he took both of her hands in his left hand to still them and put his right arm around her waist. She felt herself being guided gradually, his quiet voice telling her when to lift her feet to step onto the wall and then lifting her bodily when her uncertain feet stumbled once more. She could feel the cold wind flapping around her loose scrubs and squeezed her eyes shut as tightly as possible, in case she was tempted to open them. Instinctively, she knew she _mustn't _look; knew that the paralysing terror of the drop would only weaken her, make her collapse to the floor, all dignity gone.

"Any last words?" came Janine's voice, mocking but also, Molly sensed, a little shaky. Perhaps she was _finally_ waking up to the gravity of what she was threatening to do. "For posterity? I promise to pass any message onto your brother."

"I'm sure he'll appreciate that," Sherlock said lightly. His voice made Molly jump slightly for some reason and she nearly opened her eyes. He seemed to sense it; he tightened his hold around her waist. "_Don't look_," he whispered sharply, and she nodded and took a deep breath to try to calm herself.

"Or _you_, Molly?" Janine asked, and this time there seemed to be a note of genuine regret in her voice. "Anyone you want to say goodbye to?"

She swallowed back the hot tears of sheer panic and straightened her spine. Sherlock's fingers dug into her side painfully, partly to support her but also she sensed his approval in the way he squeezed her.

"Well, Molly? I'm waiting."

She cleared her throat, determined not to show any more weakness. "There's only one person…and he's right here beside me." She lowered her voice, squeezing her lids against the tears that threatened to fall again, and clung to his hand with both of hers. "I love you," she whispered, for his ears alone. Just to say it, one last time.

"I know," was his quiet response. "By the way, Janine," he continued in a much louder voice after a beat. "There was something I wanted to say – to _you_." He laughed loudly, his voice harsh. "Are you _really _too stupid to realise that I've _already_ found that last sarin package? That, in fact, it was in our possession _before_ I stepped onto this roof?"

Molly dimly heard Janine uttering a confused exclamation, and her eyes were just fluttering open…when, horrifyingly, Sherlock let go of her hands and gave her a hard shove away from him. Straight off the roof.


	40. Chapter 40

**I can't express enough how sorry I am to keep you all waiting! What an awful cliff hanger. I fully intended to get the next chapter done before Christmas but then stuff happened, like it always does around Christmas. If you've commented and I've not replied yet, please don't think I'm being rude, and I will get around to contacting you. Thanks as always for your support!**

* * *

**Chapter 40**

Molly screamed in pure terror, her hands flailing wildly as she felt her body tumbling forward…

Falling…falling…into icy harsh wind that stung her eyes and whipped viciously through her hair…

…before landing with an abrupt, brutal thump that knocked the breath clear out of her.

She gasped, her ribs burning as she fought to get oxygen into her parched lungs. Her limbs were dead, her _whole body_ was immobile - _was she paralysed_? – and she felt as if she was swaying, swinging in sickening circles. She had to blink water out of her eyes in order to see, unable to move a hand to wipe at them however much she struggled.

After a long confused moment, she realised she was crumpled up awkwardly in some kind of mesh or net, which creaked and swayed in the wind. Somewhere above her, she heard a high-pitched scream of fury, cut off almost immediately by the crack of a gunshot.

Her arms and legs were tangled up in the net, but fear helped her twist her body enough to look towards the sky in the direction of the shot. Astonishingly, she could see the edge of the roof quite clearly - about ten or twelve feet above her. In fact, she'd only fallen as far as the floor immediately below…even though her stinging ribs were telling her it must have been further.

Even as this extraordinary fact registered, her limbs became more constricted as the net began to move and tighten. She fought against panic, trying not to struggle as black gloved hands reached for her, pulling her head-first through a window. She was lowered rather unceremoniously to the floor. It took a minute or so for the two or three men who had pulled her inside to release her from the mesh.

Once clear, she pushed the strange hands away in a sudden panic and struggled to her knees, panting. Her ribs were killing her and fear was making her hyperventilate; she was growing dizzy as she gasped for oxygen that wouldn't come fast enough. Her heart was thumping deafeningly in her ears and her eyelids closed as she began to slump forward…

She heard quick footsteps and then new hands were grasping her arms, steadying her. "_Calm_. Easy now." The voice was familiar – cool and soothing on her fragile nerves. "Thank you, gentlemen, well done. Would you please call the medical team on your way out and then join your colleagues. You're going to be _fine_, Molly. Be calm now."

She opened her eyes with an effort to see Mycroft's face very close to hers, pale and serious despite his soothing tone. He was on his knees, crouched over her at right angles. His hands prodded her ribs very carefully, but she still winced. "Just badly bruised, I think, but you should lean back just in case. Take slow, deep breaths."

She tried to follow his instructions, but her ribs still burned. She resisted his attempts to move her back into a sitting position, looking searchingly up into his face for the answers she needed so desperately. "Sh…Sherlock? P – _pushed_ me…?"

"To safety," he clarified, as he moved her into a sitting position and lowered her backwards. "He had to get you out of the way quickly before going after Ms. Hawkins – the woman you know as Janine. There was a substantial risk she would either shoot one of you _or_ try to throw herself off the roof when she realised her plan had failed. We can't afford to grant her the luxury of suicide," he added, drily. "She knows too much."

She stopped resisting and let him lean her head back on his knees to protect it from the floor. Closing her eyes, she drifted for a long moment, breathing in and out very slowly and feeling her heartbeat begin to slow. It was a relief to realise that the other men had left the room; Mycroft had seemed to know instinctively that she didn't want any more strangers near her.

It didn't occur to her until much later to be surprised that _Mycroft Holmes_, of all people, was risking his expensive clothes on a dusty floor for her. If she'd been in her right mind, she might have been horrified at the odd intimacy of their position, but right now, she couldn't have cared less.

After a while, a door opened, and her eyelids fluttered open with a sudden renewal of fear. However, it was only one of Mycroft's minions, who murmured a few words to his boss before leaving the room again with scarcely a glance at her.

She focused her attention on Mycroft. He was leaning over her, looking anxious, a little ruffled and quite un-Mycroft-like at this skewered angle. "But – but…I heard…was there a shot…?"

"That was John." Mycroft jerked his head towards the window and the buildings across the road. "He was ready to shoot in case she suddenly attacked either of you."

She drew in a sharp breath of realisation. "I think I _saw_ him…someone, anyway. I thought he was aiming at _me_."

"Shooting to kill would have been a last resort," Mycroft continued. "I'm afraid we needed to record a confession before apprehending her, otherwise we would have retrieved you far sooner. It's not in anyone's interest for her to die before telling what she knows. No doubt she's already destroyed any documentary evidence that Magnussen left her, after memorising it, but we won't know until we question her whether anyone else has information that could be used to hold the nation to ransom. John shot the dart gun out of her hand, so she couldn't use it on Sherlock before he had a chance to overpower her. I have just been informed that Sherlock is unharmed, and she was only mildly injured and is now in custody."

Sherlock was safe… She stared up at the ceiling, feeling a heavy wave of nausea sweep over her as cold sweat prickled her forehead. "I think I'm going to be sick," she informed him suddenly.

Judging by his pained expression, he was briefly considering rolling her off his knees and moving out of the way to preserve his expensive suit. The image of fastidious Mycroft having to mop her vomit off his trousers struck her as utterly hilarious and it was this more than anything that made her nausea subside again. She had to repress a ridiculous urge to laugh out loud.

Mycroft looked as if he had read her thoughts. There was a mildly amused glint in his eye as he used an old-fashioned handkerchief to wipe the sweat off her face. "I'd _very much rather_ you didn't do that _right_ at this moment."

She breathed in deeply through her nose a few times before responding. "It's OK, I'm alright now. Well, I _say_ that, but she gave my head a really good whack and injected me with…something. Just a sedative, I think, but -."

He gave her a reassuring smile. He had finished wiping her face and put his handkerchief away, but rather surprisingly continued to stroke her forehead with his fingers. Perhaps he was trying to distract her from the nausea with a different sensation. "You'll be fine. I'll make sure of it."

She gazed up at him, wonderingly. She'd seen Mycroft smile before, but more often than not, the expression of apparent warmth seemed more like a polite mask. Very rarely did his smile reach his eyes. Maybe it was something to do with the awkward angle, but she didn't think she'd seen Mycroft's expression look quite so _open_ before.

Again, he must have sensed her thoughts, because his expression turned a little wry, although he continued to smile. "You needn't get used to it. However, I must admit to some relief. We couldn't be certain what Ms. Hawkins might have done to you. And, frankly, my brother was more unnerved than I have ever seen him once he realised the danger to you. Sherlock is always at his _most_ objectionable when he is scared."

"Ah, I see," she murmured, her mouth curving into a smile. She had a rather gratifying image of Sherlock raging around, throwing insults at all-comers to hide his fear for her safety. "That must have been…_disconcerting_ for you."

He raised an amused eyebrow but didn't rise to the bait. "There's a doctor on the way. And I'm getting you transferred to a private hospital for a full assessment of your head injury."

She shook her head, immediately regretting it as the pain returned. "There's no need for that. Here is just fine…or actually, _is_ it?" Her eyes widened. "The sarin… but didn't I hear Sherlock say that you'd already found it?"

He nodded but didn't enter into any explanations. "No doubt Sherlock will fill you in on the details in good time. Just rest for now."

She closed her eyes, feeling wrung out with relief and exhaustion. Mycroft continued to stroke her head lightly; normally, she might have batted his hand away in irritation but there was something rather fatherly and soothing about the caress. The adrenaline was seeping rapidly from her body, leaving her more aware of various aches and pains. Her head and side were both throbbing agonisingly, her scraped and cut knuckles stung, and she had a good number of general bruises from being thrown from the roof into that net. Part of her wanted the reliable Mike Stamford to assess her quickly before sending her home to bed with some welcome painkillers, but another and larger part wanted to simply lie back and let someone else make all the decisions for a while. Even if that someone _was_, rather improbably, Mycroft.

She came to another sudden realisation. "So, _that's_ why he wanted me to close my eyes! He didn't want me to react too obviously when I looked down and saw the net just below. He knows I'm not a very good actor, and if Janine had suspected anything she could have shot one of us. I suppose it had only just been positioned there and he had to wait until you were ready? Otherwise, she would have seen it when she looked over the edge earlier."

Before he could reply, the door opened and she heard rapid footsteps. Assuming it was the medical team, she stayed relaxed back on Mycroft's knees, comforted by his warmth, the smell of expensive cologne and that surprisingly gentle hand on her head.

The footsteps stopped abruptly and there was the sound of fast breathing and a silence that seemed a little…_charged_.

Mycroft spoke with mild irritation, even as his hand continued to rub her head. "_Really_, Sherlock. There's no need to be _childish_. After all, you _did_ throw the poor girl off a roof."

Her eyes opened immediately. Sherlock and John were peering down at them, John with amused curiosity and Sherlock with what looked an awful lot like disgust. Her eyes widened before she realised that he was focusing very deliberately on Mycroft's hand on her forehead.

She giggled weakly. "He smells _nice_, your brother. Expensive cologne…and it's _really_ good to feel warm again… You needn't worry. He feels more like a father or some kind of uncle. The _nice_ type of uncle, I mean, not one of those weird, creepy relatives who isn't welcome at weddings or funerals or Christmas… Am I rambling?" Mycroft's hand had faltered on her head, and she peered up at three faces, now wearing identical expressions of incomprehension. "To be fair, I _have_ been hit on the head and drugged and thrown into a net… I think I could do with a rest now…" She narrowed her eyes at Sherlock. "And _you_ owe me a _really_ good explanation for shoving me off a roof."

And ignoring the expression of outrage on Sherlock's face, she closed her eyes and relaxed in Mycroft's lap once more.

* * *

"I _still_ can't get over how she fooled me with that disguise," Molly mused as she stared into her mug of rapidly cooling tea. She was currently reclining on her sofa, swathed in blankets and propped up by a mountain of cushions and pillows.

She'd been transferred to the hospital of Mycroft's choice and kept in overnight while her injuries were assessed and blood taken to establish that the drug injected into her really _was_ just a sedative. For once, Sherlock hadn't complained about his brother's high-handedness in organising her care. Molly realised later that he'd had a genuine concern that Janine might have given her something more toxic out of revenge. She had slept on and off for the rest of the day and the following night, but in the morning had insisted very firmly on being discharged.

Sherlock, who had arrived at the hospital shortly afterwards, had turned down his brother's car and taken her home in a taxi, looking a little uncomfortable in his self-appointed role as nurse. Molly had ignored his suggestion that she go straight to bed the moment they arrived. Her ribs were badly bruised and her head still a bit sore, but she was confident that she would feel better soon. And besides, she knew she wouldn't be able to rest further until she'd had the rest of the story...although right now Sherlock was too tensely focused on providing care to the invalid to be particularly forthcoming. The cushions and blankets were hardly necessary, but she didn't like to turn them down in case she hurt his feelings. It was obvious that he was more shaken by the previous days' events than he was ever likely to admit, and this appeared to be his rather clumsy way of making amends. She had had to suppress a smile at the realisation that he was probably modelling his care on some half-remembered memories of his mother fussing over him during some childhood illness.

It had been a relief for both of them when the Watsons had turned up shortly afterwards to let him off the hook. Mary had cobbled together a scratch lunch from Molly's meagre kitchen resources and a quick trip down to the Co-Op, which they had all tucked into with enthusiasm, even Sherlock. Molly put his appetite down to some kind of delayed shock.

The only person who didn't seem shell-shocked by the events of the last couple of days was Ellie, who was currently demonstrating her new-found ability to manoeuvre across the floor on her tummy. John crouched down at one end of the lounge trying to encourage her, while Sherlock slouched in Molly's old armchair watching the baby's progress with an appearance of avid interest. She expected him to start taking notes at any moment.

Mary appeared in the kitchen doorway, her clever little face alight with interest at Molly's words. "Yes, that's what _I_ don't get either. From what you say, it was a comprehensive disguise, but even so..."

"But none of us met 'Rosie' apart from Molly -," Sherlock pointed out, reasonably, "– and she was the one who was least likely to have recognised her. After all, she only saw Janine once, and then only for a few hours. It might have been a different story if you or I had popped into the laboratory by chance."

Mary gazed out of the window, her face reflective. "I was using her to get closer to Magnussen. I genuinely believed she was just an innocent PA - I even felt bad about knocking her out. It never occurred to me that she might have been using me too. She was pretty good at playing the empty airhead, I'll give her that."

She smiled, and there was something cold about it that made Molly shiver. She remembered Janine's comments about 'Mary' having a past to hide. Did John know? Sherlock almost certainly did, and she remembered that period of time last autumn, when John and Mary seemed to be estranged, which suggested that Sherlock might have enlightened his friend. Poor John...but perhaps he didn't mind now?

She became aware of Sherlock's close observation, and rolled her eyes. "For heaven's sake, I'm _fine_. I want to know all that happened yesterday. When did you realise she had the last sarin packet at the hospital – and that she had targeted _me_? It was something that Mycroft saw on the CCTV of Greg's shooting, wasn't it?"

Sherlock glanced at John and then Mary. "He'd spotted the fact that Judinskas' arm moved just as the bullet was fired. He began to suspectthat Greg hadn't been the intended target after all, but he hadn't been able to confirm it. He had experts analysing the images to compare them with photographs showing your relative positions in the café when Greg was killed. Yesterday morning, I believe he had been about to tell you of his suspicions, but we were all distracted by the sarin attack. Knowing Mycroft, if he hadn't been so focused on the threat of a national terrorist incident, he'd have taken you into protective custody there and then."

He paused, looking uncomfortable. "When he received definite evidence that _you_ were the target and not Greg, I then recalled certain facts I had been confused by before – _why_ didn't I consider their significance at the time…? I've been very slow with this case…"

He stood up restlessly and paced to the window. "First of all, if Janine had wanted to kill _just_ John - and possibly Mary and Ellie as well – then _why_ did she arrange for the bomb to go off during the day? She could have set it off in the middle of the night, when everyone was sleeping and unaware. And why bother to _warn_ me? I assumed she gave me some warning because she wanted me to arrive just in time to witness your deaths, so she could make me suffer. But that was a gamble, because she must have known that both John and Mary would be experienced enough to act quickly and save their lives once they became aware of a threat – and that I would, naturally, contact them immediately. But then, of course, the landline and Internet connections were down, so I couldn't get through to them – she had someone who was able to arrange that for a specific period of time, probably another blackmail victim. Sherrinford's contacts can help identify the individual."

He paused in his pacing and looked at Molly. "She wanted me to suffer…but it wasn't _John's _or _Mary's_ deaths she was thinking of. It was _yours_. She already knew that I – well, she knew that you were more than just a pathology assistant. Magnussen would have told her you'd helped me cheat Moriarty out of my death. I imagine that security around your flat was too strong for a bomb to be planted, thanks to my brother's surveillance, so it had to happen when you were out. She knew your movements and that you'd fallen into a habit of visiting John and Mary on Sunday mornings, so she saw it as an opportunity to get rid of all three of you at the same time."

He shook his head, as if disgusted by his own stupidity. "I should have recognised the significance of the time and location much sooner. I continued to assume the true targets to be John, Greg and Mrs. Hudson, but in each case it was you." He paused before going on very quietly, looking down at his hands to avoid their eyes. "Mycroft was _right_. He implied very strongly that you might be in danger, but I ignored his warnings. Partly because it was Mycroft, but mainly because I was _convinced_ that this woman had the same three targets as before – it seemed logical. As far as I could see, she'd failed with John, succeeded with Greg, and then, when it came to Mrs. Hudson…I _certainly_ should have worked it out _then_. When I saw her lying there…well, you already know that my immediate fear was that it was _you_, because of that coat you'd lent her. If _I_ had made that mistake, however briefly, then naturally _Judinskas_ must have too, which is why he'd attacked her."

Molly suddenly felt incredibly guilty at the mention of the elderly landlady. "Oh! With all that's happened, I completely forgot about Mrs. Hudson. Was that _really _only two days' ago? Is she out of hospital yet?"

It was John who answered. "I looked in on her this morning. She's stable, but by no means out of the woods, so it'll be a while before they let her go. It was a nasty attack on an older person. They don't bounce back so easily."

In the silence that followed this, he coughed in his familiar manner and took over the narration from Sherlock, who was glaring at the floor and seemed lost in his own thoughts.

"Once we realised that you'd _always_ been the target, it became clear that she had the last packet of sarin and that she was going to use it to force a showdown with Sherlock. The rooftop at Bart's would naturally be the focus. She could have had the sarin with her on the roof, but she would have been risking her own life if she'd released it…and Sherlock was certain that wasn't her motive. She wanted to see Sherlock die first. So _that_ meant it was hidden somewhere in the hospital.

"Your colleagues told us that they hadn't seen you or 'Rosie' for a while but they thought they had seen her leave the department with one of the night porters. They hadn't been suspicious because she'd been quite friendly with him recently and seemed to be helping him move some trolleys. We found him gagged and bound in a boiler room. He told us that he'd been attacked and tied up by a man who had joined them, and that this man and 'Rosie' had looked at a plan of the air vents. We were able to see the plan and work out possible locations – she would want the package to be in a very strategic location and yet also controllable from the roof, so that meant direct access. Once the packet had been located and safely replaced with a fake one, Mycroft's men apprehended Judinskas, I nipped across the way with a gun, and Sherlock went up to join you both on the roof. It was a difficult situation. Mycroft wanted a definite confession to be recorded and he didn't want her to have a chance to kill herself. So Sherlock had to keep her talking and distracted until he was satisfied that Mycroft had what he needed…_and_ while the safety net was being put in place. Mycroft's people couldn't do that until Sherlock was on the roof and in a position to distract Janine from looking over the edge."

"I knew she'd want me to jump from the same spot, so it was easy to work out where Mycroft's team should position it." Sherlock continued. "I was being recorded and the code phrase for putting the net in place was '_we have to jump'_." He looked at Molly, his eyes searching hers. "You remember?"

She nodded. She remembered…and she remembered _also_ how uncharacteristically defeated he'd looked when he had said it. She could recall perfectly clearly her sense of disbelief at that moment.

He gave her a lop-sided little smile. "Actually, it wasn't acting – or not _entirely_. I didn't _want_ to have to push you off a rooftop. I _had_ hoped to talk her around instead."

"I should think so! You do _realise_ that that could have gone horribly wrong? What if I'd been blown off course by the wind or something like that?"

He shook his head, still smiling, this time with amusement at her indignation. "I'd taken all the variables into account. I took great care to push you in the right direction. I could have just pulled you back onto the roof, but the risk was that she would shoot one of us once she realised her plan had failed. I needed to get you out of range and be free to lunge at her and get that gun out of her hand if necessary."

"Even then he nearly _didn't_ reach her," John broke in. "I had to shoot the gun out of her hand and then Sherlock got her in a rugby tackle before she could pitch herself off the roof."

"She would have done it too if she could," Mary said, thoughtfully. "From what I remember of her, she always had tremendous physical courage…and a passionate nature. If she knew the game was up, I'm sure she'd want to go out in the most dramatic way possible. She must _hate_ being locked up – _confined_."

Molly shivered again at the thought, trying to imagine Janine in one of Mycroft's padded little rooms. "Where…do you suppose he's put her?"

Sherlock shrugged, not seeming much interested. "Oh, he'll have his plans for her." He frowned, the amusement dropping from his face. "I'm more concerned about the fact that she was able to wrong-foot me for so long. If I'd realised sooner…"

His voice trailed away and there was a moment of silence as the unuttered name of Greg Lestrade hung in the air between them. It still seemed impossible that he wouldn't be walking in any moment to join the little group - tossing a casual insult in Sherlock's direction, offering a gruff, friendly greeting to John and Mary, giving Molly a wink and a lovely warm smile meant for only her.

The familiar ache that she always felt in her chest whenever she remembered Greg had an added poignancy now. If _only_ she hadn't bumped into Greg that day, _if only_ she hadn't made him go to that café with her... And she thought she'd been _protecting_ him, when all along he would have been safer if he hadn't got involved with her. Right now, he could've been planning that move to a sunny Caribbean island to live out his deserved retirement…

She closed her eyes and saw his face before her, just an image - an impression - but very clearly _him_. Tanned skin, brown eyes dancing in amusement as he shook his head at her, that careless, attractive grin... And his _voice _– gruff but honest, always kind, unmistakably Greg, uttering words he had never said in life… "_Remember me, Molly, but no regrets_…"

Automatically, her hand went to her chest as if to protect against the sharp pain of loss. She opened her eyes, catching John's glance and seeing the empathy and shared sorrow there – trust dear, wonderful John to understand how she felt…and to know instinctively that _no_ words of comfort, however well-intentioned, would help.

Mary was looking down at her daughter, her face sombre. She, of course, hadn't known Greg quite so well, but she knew well enough what he had meant to her husband and to Molly.

And Sherlock? Her eyes went to him as he gazed at his hands, his pale face blank and as apparently objective as ever. It was an expression that once would have made John remonstrate him for his lack of compassion – and even she would have been shocked, not fully understanding how Sherlock processed emotions. But _now_, as he raised his eyes to meet hers, she saw the silent agony that he would usually keep masked and show to very few others. And she knew that he would _always_ bitterly regret Greg's untimely death and hold himself accountable…but the world would never know it.

* * *

"By the way, I'm not going to move in with you," Molly announced much later.

John had left hours ago to check on Mrs. Hudson, and Mary had just departed to take a sleepy Ellie back to Baker Street. Molly had half expected Sherlock to leave with her, but he had announced his intention to stay overnight "just in case she needed anything".

She didn't entire trust that he _would_ stay all night. As the day had worn on, he'd begun to regain much of his equilibrium and even the former, unfocused energy that she always associated with Sherlock in-between cases. He kept alternately striding to the windows to look out, returning to 'his' armchair and glancing at his phone from time to time. She was surprised to realise that, far from feeling offended, she was relieved to see him back to his old self. Even if it _did _mean that he might suddenly forget all about her and run off on some new case.

At her remark he looked at her quickly, but made no response. There was no sign of surprise in his expression, but he hunched himself a little defensively in the chair, watching her with wary eyes.

"Not _straight away_, I mean," she clarified quickly. "There's this flat to think of – I'll need to decide what to do with it. And then there's Toby. He's my cat and I don't want to give him up, but I also need to consider whether he'd be really happy at Baker Street. And – and…" She took a deep breath before going on. "And, well, it's all happened so _quickly_ – you know? I've had _years_ and _years_ of learning to accept that you would never love me and telling myself that I needed to stop being silly and move on…and then you tell me that you _do_ love me. The last few weeks have felt slightly unreal. With all that's happened with Janine and that bomb and Greg, we've not had any opportunity to really _think_ about it. And now you want us to move in together right away, and – and well, it's all a bit _confusing_." She smiled at him, to take away the sting of her words. "I want to be _certain_ this time around."

He continued to watch her, but she fancied his body relaxed slightly. "We _will _work," he commented in a quiet but firm voice. "I can _make_ us work."

"And _that – right there – _is precisely what worries me," she replied, equally quietly.

They gazed at one another as the sky outside began to darken, threatening another late afternoon rainstorm. Molly's cheaply glazed windows normally let in the sound of traffic outside, but today it was oddly muted and the silence pressed in upon them. It wasn't an oppressive silence though – it was peace and cups of tea and cosy afternoons in 221B peppered with experiments and lively discussions and insults and sudden laughter… Looking at him now, she realised that she could spend a whole lifetime – _several _lifetimes - of cosy afternoons (and mornings and evenings and nights) with this man and not be bored for a single second. And she wondered whether she was a fool to delay her happiness any further. And yet…

She shook her head gently as she held his gaze. "The thing is, I don't _want_ you to _try_ to make it work. I want you to carry on as before – well, not _quite_ as before," she added, hastily. "I don't mean we return to what we used to be. I love you…and I believe – no, I _know_ – you love me. But we – we need to find out what will work for us. How we will fit living together around our lives. I have my pathology degree to complete and I need to get back to normal so I can do that, while _you_ need to get back to – um – well, whatever's normal for _you_."

She swallowed, her throat suddenly tight. "What I'm saying is that, if 'normal' life means staying up all night doing your experiments, stealing organs from the morgue, dashing around London at 3AM with John – whatever it may be - _do it_. And just keep right on doing it until the day you _really_ want to stop. Please _don't _try to change for me. _I_ won't change for _you_."

His eyes dropped to the floor as he considered this. Fascinated, she gazed at the changing expressions flitting across his face and wondered if she'd ever tire of watching his mind at work. A stranger might think that Sherlock was merely very slow at thinking through matters of the heart, while someone who knew him and loved him as well as she did would know that he was actually very fast, perhaps _too_ fast. Right now, he'd be whizzing ahead, considering all the angles and possible outcomes at breakneck speed.

"The truth is, I love you _so_ much that I'm scared of doing the wrong thing," she added suddenly, wanting to be sure he understood her. "I - I can't _tell_ you how easy it would be for me to move in immediately. It's what I've dreamed of for _years_, almost since the moment we met. You – the other night…" She smiled at the memory. "You made me a very attractive proposition, didn't you? Remember? Just you and me, in a cosy cottage on the Sussex Downs. No more danger. Nothing unexpected ever happening."

He nodded, not looking at her.

"You couldn't have _meant_ it," she said, gently. "Or – or you _did_, you weren't thinking straight. It wasn't _you_, Sherlock. If I moved in with you _immediately_ and you tried to change to – to become someone that you _think_ I would want to live with, we'd probably wind up bored and frustrated and fed up and - and we'd _hate_ each other. _I'd_ hate _myself_ for – for making you less than you can be. You've still got so much to do. And you'd hate me too. I'd end up losing you, don't you see? And -," her voice broke a little, "- and I can't bear to even think of it. You – you do _understand_, don't you?"

It was not a question that she'd ever considered necessary to ask him – this was _Sherlock_, after all, and when had he _ever_ not understood her perfectly?

But, on this occasion, he continued to frown at his hands. After a moment, pure instinct made her throw her blankets off and sink onto her knees in front of him, unmindful of her bruises. Putting her hands over his to still the agitated movement of his fingers, she peered up into his face. It was blank in that peculiar Sherlock fashion that meant he had reached some kind of barrier in his thoughts.

"Sherlock? _Please_ tell me you understand?"

At her urging, he reluctantly met her eyes. His expression was wry as he spoke in a lightly ironic tone. "It appears that I don't _want_ to be different any more. I used to _revel_ in it – being on the outside. Mycroft and I…we both enjoyed it. Being special, even if it meant a lifetime of loneliness because – after all – who could match up to _our _elevated standards? And who would put up with us anyway?" He sighed heavily. "When we were children, _Sherrinford_ was the only one of us who really tried to be…'normal', I suppose you would term it. Average. _Not_ standing out in the crowd. Our parents loved him for it, especially Father. For the first time, I believe I can understand why."

Even as he spoke, there was doubt in his tone, and she sensed he had mixed feelings. If he _did_ genuinely want to be 'normal' – to dull that brilliant shining mind - it could only be for her sake and not for his.

She leaned forward, kissing that little crease of tension off his brow, as she'd often yearned to do over the years. "Oh, _Sherlock_. I'm sorry to break it to you, but I don't think you could _ever_ be 'normal', however hard you tried."

He looked at her, his expression bleak. "So what _is _the answer? You don't want me to change and yet you're not going to change either? How will it ever work?"

She smiled at him, putting up a hand to smooth the unruly curls off his forehead. He was still such a child in many ways…

"_Trust_ me. And give me time. We'll work it all out." She slid her other hand up his thigh very slowly, giving him a seductive look from beneath her lashes as she heard his breath catch. "As for being 'normal'…it's just as well for _you_ that I happen to find _normal _to be _really…quite incredibly…boring_. Isn't it?"


	41. Chapter 41

**Well, things have moved on just a bit at this point... **

* * *

**Chapter 41**

"_Molly_!" Sherlock stuck his head through the kitchen archway. "What happened to my liver?"

Molly, who was lounging on the sofa, calmly gulped down the last of her lukewarm coffee before replying. "_Well_, if you mean that rather unhealthy-looking organ you left in the bath last night, it's now in a Tupperware container in the fridge."

"_Tupperware…_?" She heard him rummaging for a minute and then he reappeared, holding a baby-pink salad container and giving her an accusing look.

"I nearly stepped on it when I went for a shower after my late," she pointed out patiently, as she stood up. "You can't _possibly_ tell me that whatever disgusting experiment you were working on has been ruined by me being sensible enough to isolate it in a sterilised container and keep it cold."

"The atmospheric conditions in that bathroom were perfect," he muttered, as he opened the container at the kitchen table and prodded at the sorry-looking organ.

"Oh, and does that include the temperature being raised by a hot shower being run? To say nothing of it being spattered with water and my shower gel?" She stepped past him to put the mugs in the sink and turn the hot tap on.

"I didn't think you'd be using the shower _here_ as opposed to at Bart's."

"I _wouldn't_ have been, but I was called out to a scene last night. Would've told you if you'd been in." She grimaced at the memory. "House fire. One man, one woman. Had to scrape samples to identify them. And you know how the smoke clings to your skin and hair – I _really_ needed another shower once I got home."

"Interesting?"

She shook her head. "Looked like a straightforward case. Alcoholics, passed out on sofa, dropped a lit cigarette. Must have been completely out of it. You know I'd have texted you if there'd been anything unusual." She eyed the liver. "Couldn't you replicate the experiment today? I won't need the bathroom later – oh yes, and I'm on call _again_ tonight because -."

"So he finally admitted to the affair?" he interrupted, continuing to prod critically at the organ.

She blinked, and readjusted her brain to 'Sherlock'. "If you mean Ivan, yes, he _did_, and now she's off to her mother's in Wales, and he's got to dash after her _immediately_, otherwise their marriage will be over – _again_ – and he begged me to cover for him, and you know me – I feel sorry for him…" She paused. "But, of course, you _knew _all of that already, didn't you?"

He sniffed, sounding remarkably middle-aged and disapproving. "I didn't know the specifics, but it was quite obvious that your colleague has been cheating on his wife once more. Since he is incapable of keeping a secret for long, there was bound to be a showdown, and she would leave him once again …_naturally_."

"Oh, _naturally_," she agreed with a little smile as she washed the cups. Pausing, she gave him a sideways look. He was setting up his experiment on the kitchen table. "So, you're not going to try it again?"

"No need." He sounded quite sanguine; he was in one of his 'between cases' moods, when sometimes he would flit from experiment to experiment with no particular drive. She didn't mind this mood in him at all; it was the one from which he could be distracted most easily.

"You don't _really _mind, do you? It was supposed to be my night off, but…"

It was tacitly acknowledged between them that Sherlock would make an attempt to be around for all or part of her rare nights off, assuming he was not mid-case. Even when he was, he would often put his work aside for a while. He did a lot of private work these days - petty domestic cases of theft, betrayal or missing information that were often easy to solve and just as easy to set aside. They didn't necessarily go out for dinner. More usually, they would order a takeaway and sit in front of something mindless on the TV.

"Well, I _had_ been planning dinner at Angelo's," he said, over-casually, pulling on some heavy-duty gloves.

She turned around to look at him properly, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. "You _never_ organise dinner in advance. Is it a case?"

He was carefully pouring something that looked – and smelt - acidic into a dish. "There's a man who goes to the restaurant every Thursday night. He sits alone at the back table, orders only coffee and takes exactly two hours to drink it. Every Thursday, from eight to ten, for the last five weeks. Angelo thought I might be interested."

"Oh, I _see_…so you needed a _date_?" She laughed. "Why don't you take John? Old times' sake, and all that."

"Hmm, maybe…" He sliced off a tiny section of the unhealthy-looking liver and used some tongs to delicately dip it in the liquid before laying it on a petri dish. "Tell me, what would _your _reaction be to a man sitting alone for two hours in the same place and at the same time each week?"

She frowned, trying to visualise the restaurant; they'd visited it a few times over the last eighteen months. "At the back table? I suppose…well, I _might_ wonder who was sitting in his eye-line. Someone at the next table, perhaps? He's obviously not watching anything outside the restaurant, because you can't see out of the window there. Is he waiting for some kind of signal from a fellow diner?"

"_Very good_, Dr. Hooper." He didn't look at her, but she could hear the approval in his voice.

She blinked at the title and smiled. "_Dr._ Hooper. I can't get used to that. And I can't believe it happened so quickly – just two years and nine months to get my medical qualification. I would've thought another year at least."

He shrugged, his head bent over his work. "You already had your chemistry degree, so you were part-way there. It was just a matter of passing the remaining units to convert it over. I'm not at all surprised."

"It probably helped that I was able to study full time. You have to admit, it was really decent of Mycroft to lend me the money."

"I admit nothing," he countered, but there was a hint of a smile in his voice. His attitude to his older brother had mellowed ever-so-slightly.

"I mean to pay him back, of course," she added, quickly. "Once I've finished the conversion course. I just need to get back into the job first. Mike's been so helpful – he didn't have to hold open the trainee position for me as long as he did."

Sherlock snorted. "Mycroft wouldn't accept the money. He'd tell you it was a gift."

"_Some gift_!"

"Or he'll say it was a bribe. To keep me out of trouble."

She leaned against the kitchen counter and watched him affectionately as he focused on his experiment.

Even with Mycroft's vast wealth, the loan had been a generous offer. She'd been so keen to get through the clinical element of her medical degree as quickly as possible that she hadn't turned it down. The financial security had also helped her sort out her personal circumstances, which had led to moving into 221B rather sooner than she had planned. It did make sense really. She had been pretty much living there already, and the constant commute between Baker Street and Tufnell Park had become a hassle.

Her fears that Sherlock would somehow become a lesser version of himself in an attempt to accommodate her hadn't been realised. Fundamentally, Sherlock was Sherlock; he wouldn't change his behaviour this late in life, but then neither would she, and that was a comfort. It was good to realise that the two of them could co-exist comfortably without having to make many sacrifices.

At first, she'd been disconcerted by his tendency to dash off almost any time, day or night, and she'd had to school herself to get used to not knowing when to expect him back. Although she seemed to wake up alone more often than not, she had grown used to that – and the times that he _did_ stay in bed were more than enough compensation. Sherlock between-cases was an enthusiastic and generous lover, particularly on lazy weekend mornings.

The change in circumstances seemed to have suited him too. John credited Molly for the fact that Sherlock looked healthier these days, and it was true that he'd gained some much-needed weight, mainly due to her practical domesticity. However, while Sherlock made more of an effort to eat properly between cases, he still frequently went for days existing only on black coffee. Unlike John, Molly didn't try to nag him into eating, which he seemed to appreciate.

All in all, he was surprisingly easy to live with. She didn't feel suffocated, as she had done with Tom; there was no pressure to do absolutely everything together as a 'couple'. And he wasn't as demanding of her time as he had been of John's, clearly recognising that she could be of limited use to him in his work. Having said that, he _had_ called her into one or two slightly quirky cases – not that there was anything she could tell him that he didn't already know, but it had been interesting to watch the detective at work. She'd had a sneaky suspicion that those occasions had been Sherlock's bizarre idea of a date – as if it had never occurred to him that the more usual romantic gestures were dinner and flowers…although she'd probably see through any attempt at conventional romance – and he almost certainly knew that.

She was relieved that there were at least _some_ interesting cases for him. She had feared that with Greg's death, Sherlock would lose his special relationship with Scotland Yard. However, and rather surprisingly, it'd been Sally Donovan that had called him for advice on an unusual murder, apparently putting her antipathy aside in favour of pragmatism. After that, he'd resumed his old habit of wandering into Scotland Yard whenever he felt like it. Recently, he'd been working through some cold case files that had belonged to Greg and had succeeded in finding some new leads - a generous gesture that had helped to improve his standing with the other detectives.

Molly had heard of this by rumour, since Sherlock wouldn't talk about it and she couldn't bear to go anywhere near the Yard. It wouldn't have felt the same without Greg – bad enough she could no longer text him whenever she wanted or meet him for Friday drinks. His colleagues had paid for a small memorial cross to be placed in the Crematorium's garden of remembrance, and she still visited it every Friday evening after work, whatever the circumstances or the weather. It was the very least she could do.

Even if she had been able to bear visiting the Yard, she'd spent enough time there after her abduction by Janine situation, having to give a pointless statement. Pointless because it was a crime that wasn't destined to be investigated in the normal manner – Mycroft had seen to that. She'd been relieved that she hadn't been required to give evidence in any court case. Having to relive the day of Greg's death would have been deeply painful, especially after learning that he'd never been the target in the first place. It was one of the many thing that she was profoundly grateful to Sherlock's brother for.

As she considered Sherlock's comments on Mycroft's true motivation for loaning her the money, she wondered if there was some truth in them. Certainly, since she'd moved in, Sherlock's lifestyle had become less erratic and his brother could only approve of that. However, she had also developed a tentative friendship with Mycroft – or at least she felt she knew him as well as _anyone_ could outside his own family - and she was certain that his loan been motivated by kindness. Which didn't mean she _wouldn't_ try to pay him back…

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at the evil-looking liquid. "What on earth is it? Don't let it drip onto the floor. Toby-."

"He's _fine_. Sleeping on the bed in John's old room." She noticed the way he deftly dodged a direct answer to her question.

"Yes, talking of that," she said, meaningfully. "I thought we'd _agreed_ that the upstairs room was going to become the laboratory…"

"Well, I can hardly set it up in a room that your feline has decided to move into on a permanent basis, can I?" he countered, with an innocent tone.

She frowned, concerned. Toby _did_ appear to spend a lot of time in John's old room these days. It was odd, as the room was hardly ever used and, during this chilly October, felt particularly dank and cold. "He's got a strong sense of self-preservation, that's all. He's trying to keep out of your way."

"I'm not going to experiment on the cat, Molly."

"Well, _he_ doesn't know that. I warned him about you. He's an intelligent cat and understands every word I say." She spoke deliberately lightly to hide her worry; her cat had grown increasingly rheumatic and immobile over the last few months and she suspected he was struggling with the steep stairs.

He looked up at her, his sharp eyes seeing the concern in her face. "I'll light the fire later to entice him down."

She smiled gratefully. A little bond of fellowship had grown between Sherlock and Toby since they'd moved in together. At first Sherlock had been indifferent and resigned to the cat's presence, but he'd made no objection when Toby had started sleeping in his armchair. Molly still recalled the day she'd come home late at night and had had to wipe away tears of laughter at the sight of Sherlock lying prone on the sofa, deep in his Mind Palace and apparently oblivious to the peacefully sleeping feline perched on his chest.

"So, _are_ you going to drag John along to Angelo's tonight?" she asked, curiously.

He shrugged. "_You've_ already worked it out, so what's the point? He waits for a signal from the woman sitting on the next table. Angelo just hasn't noticed that she's always there too, probably because she's a little more discrete and varies her timing, behaviour and clothing. Clearly yet another clandestine affair… It's all _affairs_ these days," he grumbled mildly. "_Boring_."

"Not to the people involved, I suppose." She yawned and glanced at her watch; having been on duty until the early hours last night, she'd slept late into the morning. "Damn. I need to pop over to the flat this afternoon. Matt left a message – the boiler's starting to play up again."

"I don't know why you don't just sell it," he remarked. "It costs you too much to keep it going and a developer would snap it up."

She had to concede the truth of his comment. When she'd first moved in, she'd decided to let out her old flat, partly because it was in a prime rental location and partly because she rather fancied the notion of becoming a landlady, like Mrs. Hudson. In reality, it was much harder to sort out minor maintenance problems from halfway across the city. Sherlock was no help with practical matters, and it was hard finding plumbers and electricians that were prepared to turn out for the relatively small jobs she needed doing.

"You've had long enough to make your mind up," he added, with an oddly tense note in his voice.

She gave him a surprised look. "Do you think…? I'm _not_ keeping it on just so I've got somewhere to run back to!"

"Aren't you?" He didn't look up from his work.

She paused, reconsidering. She could recall thinking that it had been a blessing she hadn't sold her flat during that brief, disastrous engagement to Tom. But _this_ time around, she'd gone into a relationship with her eyes well and truly open…

On the other hand, the flat _was_ a handy bolthole. Selling up would finalise matters and reduce her options if things went badly with Sherlock. It would be a commitment – probably the closest they would ever get to a proper one; she didn't anticipate getting a ring on her finger any time soon. Were they _really_ ready for that?

She realised that she was staring at his thin hands, which had gone still, as if he was waiting for her reaction.

Taking a deep breath, she replied, deliberately casual. "Well, I'm not going to be moving back in, if that's what you think. If I can get the boiler sorted out and make a few improvements, I'm sure Matt would renew his contract. He seems quite settled there. If not…well, maybe I'll put out some feelers with the agent. See what it's worth now. It could be a useful way of paying Mycroft back."

He seemed to relax slightly, resuming his work with nimble fingers. "I'm telling you, Mycroft won't take it."

"I won't take what?" The familiar voice came from the entrance door.

Sherlock sighed and muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath, as Molly peered through the archway into the lounge to look at their visitor. Mycroft stood in the open doorway, a slightly smug expression on his face. "I'm not interrupting anything, I trust?"

"No, not at all, come on in," Molly invited, with a smile. "In fact, it's a funny thing, you know, you always say that when you come in, and yet you never _do_ interrupt anything, which is quite _amazing_… really _quite_ amazing… considering…" Her voice trailed away in confusion as she realised how stupid that sounded.

Sherlock snorted, while Mycroft affected not to notice her confusion. He entered the flat and shut the door behind him with precise motions. "Sherlock has no doubt told you that I wouldn't _hear_ of you paying back the money."

"He says that you'll say it was a gift…or a bribe."

Mycroft appeared to consider this for a moment, his head on one side, before shaking it. "Oh no, he's _quite_ wrong." He flashed a quick smile at Molly. "I consider it…insurance."

His brother gave another loud snort from the kitchen, which he ignored. "Actually, I _am_ here for a reason. You might be interested in this, little brother, if you can tear yourself away from…whatever _that_ is. Thank you, I won't have tea, Molly." He seated himself in John's old armchair and pulled a small side table towards him, onto which he deposited a file that he'd removed from his briefcase.

There was a momentary pause before Sherlock entered the lounge. He walked over to his own chair, facing Mycroft, with an expression of genuine interest on his face. Molly wandered over to perch on the arm of it, reflecting as she always did on the bizarre way the brothers managed to communicate without words. Something in Mycroft's behaviour or tone of voice had made Sherlock abandon his experiment without argument, which wasn't always the case.

Mycroft leaned back, regarding them for a moment before tapping the file with his well-manicured fingers. "We have been examining the estate of Janine Marie Hawkins…"

Molly leaned forward intently. "She's _dead_?"

As far as she had known, Janine had spent the last eighteen months in Mycroft's custody. Although he'd been extremely cagey about his valuable prisoner, there'd been no suggestion that she'd died. Molly had assumed Moriarty's sister was being held in some long-term facility without access to lawyers or right of appeal. Remembering Greg's death, she'd never felt any particular outrage at this legal injustice.

Mycroft's face was blank. "I cannot discuss Ms. Hawkins' current whereabouts or situation. However, her property is no longer her own – at _her _agreement," he added, glancing at Molly.

Sherlock gave his brother a knowing look. "So…she's under your protection."

"You _might_ say that," Mycroft responded, quietly. "She had a choice. She could be placed in a high security facility of my choosing or she could take her chances with the British legal system – _and_ the general prison system." He gave them a thin humourless smile. "Prison guards aren't particularly fond of police killers. She had the better deal – her colleague is not so lucky. A twenty year sentence for his role in planting a bomb, carrying out a murder and an attempted murder, and planting the sarin packets. After that, he'll be deported – _if_ he survives."

"I didn't see that in the papers," Molly mused.

"You wouldn't," Mycroft replied, shortly. "Anyway, I was discussing Ms. Hawkins' property, which now belongs to the Crown. Some fairly considerable assets, mostly through blackmail, of course." He glanced at Sherlock. "She made herself comfortably off by selling that charming story about you to the tabloids; however, Magnussen left her a great deal more. Not money, but secrets - and she appears to have exploited them extremely thoroughly. Much of the money will be returned to the 'donors', no doubt, but _this_ is rather interesting."

He flipped open the file on the table next to him and selected a large colour photograph, which he held out to his brother with a self-satisfied air.

Molly leaned into Sherlock's shoulder to get a better view of the photograph. It depicted a solid red-and-white-brick house standing in open countryside. The house was two-storeyed and old-fashioned, with a working chimney and a low dry-stone wall, which seemed to extend for half an acre at the back.

Sherlock drew in a sharp breath and ran a fingertip across the low eaves and the stout front door.

"_Indeed_." Mycroft was watching him closely. "Possibly you don't remember very well -."

"Of _course_ I remember." Sherlock's voice was sharp. "I could hardly forget two weeks every August between the ages of four and nine. So, Janine bought it, did she? I wonder why?"

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, folding his arms and stretching his legs out. Molly could see he was enjoying himself, for once being in possession of information that Sherlock was genuinely interested in. "Don't you remember, little brother? She sold her story and bought a cottage in the South Downs. Quite a coincidence, eh?"

Sherlock tossed the photo onto the table. "There's no such thing as 'coincidence'." He leaned back in his own chair, slightly dislodging Molly in the process, as his hands went to his chin in the familiar 'thinking' manner.

"So what is this place?" Molly leaned across him to recapture the photograph. "Somewhere you went on holiday?"

"It belonged to an old childhood friend of our mother," Mycroft explained. "It's on the South Downs, on the outskirts of the village of East Dean, about three miles from Eastbourne. We holidayed there each year until the woman died suddenly and quite unexpectedly, and the property was sold. _Naturally_, Sherlock was convinced her death was foul play," he added, drily. "I remember him asking some very awkward questions of her relatives at the funeral. Mummy was _most_ embarrassed. If we had known _then_ what his early childhood obsession with sudden death would lead to…"

Molly nodded, remembering Sherlock's description of his childhood holidays – Arundel and the South Downs – and that they were "not unpleasant". She picked up the file before moving to the sofa, so she could take a proper look at the contents. There were a couple more photographs of the house, taken from different angles, some descriptive blurb that was clearly written by an estate agent, and the legal documentation. Mycroft didn't stop her examining these. Instead, he focused his attention on his brother, his expression neutral.

Eventually, Sherlock spoke. "Clearly she didn't go to Magnussen for advice on what property to buy. She was trying to get away from him. But Magnussen knew her pressure points, and he was able to prod her in a certain direction. At that point, she had no idea that it used to be our holiday cottage. Did he ever tell her, I wonder?"

"For all I know, she is still in the dark about that particular fact. She certainly didn't seem particularly sentimental about it when she relinquished it to the government."

"She wouldn't. I doubt she even lived in it. A country cottage wouldn't have suited her _at all_, which makes me wonder why she bought it in the first place…and why she made a point of telling _me_ about it…" Sherlock paused for long enough to make Molly look up at him, and then grinned suddenly. "A little grandiose of you, Mycroft, describing yourself as the 'government'. I assume you own it now?"

His brother favoured him with a thin smile. "I _purchased_ it from the Crown, Sherlock. All quite legal and 'above board'. Ms. Hawkins' assets are being sold off to compensate her victims. I thought it might be of mild interest to you."

Sherlock shook his head and leaned forward with an abruptness that made Molly jump. "No you didn't. You have something else in mind…" His eyes narrowed. "What will _you_ do with it? You _hate_ the countryside."

His brother gave a slight shudder, as if suddenly reliving the country holidays of childhood that he had apparently detested. "Well, _I _don't intend to make any use of it. Perhaps you might?"

Molly dropped the estate agent's description and stared incredulously at Mycroft and then Sherlock. "What would _we_ do with it?"

Mycroft looked between the two of them before responding. "I was rather thinking of a gift. A wedding present of sorts, if you like. An informal one, of course, since I can't imagine the two of you ever entering the marriage state."

He allowed the words to hang in the atmosphere, which had suddenly turned a little tense. Sherlock cast a nervous glance at Molly and she gave him a reassuring smile before looking back at the little pile of legal papers on her lap. A name on one of them caught her eye and she frowned and picked it up for a closer look.

"What's this? Deed of ownership…William Sherlock Scott Holmes and Molly Amelia Hoop… _No_! Oh no, _no_, you can't do _this_, Mycroft! This is madness! Not for _me_ at any rate - you've already been more than generous. Besides, we've no more wish to leave London than _you_… Have we, Sherlock?"

Mycroft made no reply, merely smiling as his keen, all-seeing gaze shifted deliberately to his brother.

Sherlock had picked up the first photograph again and was staring at it. There was a gleam in his eye that she knew all too well...

"_Sherlock_? You can't really be thinking of accepting this – this _gift_?" She laughed, incredulously. "What would you even _do _there – out in the middle of nowhere?"

"Not exactly in the 'middle of nowhere'," Mycroft pointed out. "A decent run from London if you avoid the rush hour. A rather pretty spot in a valley. Very sheltered. Ideal for bee-keeping; in fact, as you will see from the description, there are some currently unoccupied hives in the garden."

Sherlock's brow was furrowed in thought before his expression cleared. "Ah, yes. I remember them now. Of course, I didn't understand their purpose at the time… And there was a path running down to the coast, and then up onto the cliffs at Beachy Head…"

Mycroft nodded. "Birling Gap and the Seven Sisters. You could – and frequently did - beachcomb for _hours_ on that shingled beach. Mummy said she could never understand what it was that you found so fascinating about the rubbish you collected…"

"This is all very interesting -," Molly interrupted quickly, "- but what's your _real_ motivation, Mycroft? You can't _really_ have imagined that Sherlock would want to leave London…?"

"I didn't say _leave_ London," was the mild reply. "Not _yet_, anyway. I just thought you might use it as some form of…_holiday_ cottage. A chance to get away from time to time, that sort of thing."

She laughed again. "When would _we_ get away? Even if I had the time for a holiday, more often than not your brother is in the middle of some case or other."

Mycroft shrugged and got up. "Well, there it is. If you can really make no use of it, by all means sell it on. John and Mary might care to use it from time to time perhaps? Or your inestimable landlady - I understand she is thinking of leaving London for the sake of her health."

Molly stood up to follow him to the door. "Mycroft, _please_! You must see that I can't _possibly_ accept a share in this property. By all means give it to Sherlock – I can't stop you being generous to your own brother - but you owe nothing to _me_."

"On the contrary, Molly." He turned in the doorway to favour her with one of his usual bland smiles, but there was depth of emotion in his eyes that she had glimpsed only rarely. "I owe you more than you will ever know."

And on those words, to which there seemed to be no possible answer, he made his exit.

Molly gave Sherlock a despairing look. He was leaning back in his chair, hands behind his hand, and not looking remotely concerned. If anything, his expression was amused and perhaps just a little too pleased.

She put her hands on her hips. "The whole idea is ridiculous – completely impractical! We'd never use the place and I don't have enough time to run some kind of – of _holiday let_, on top of everything else. What's the point of keeping it? And we can't possibly sell it and keep the money."

He gave a negligent shrug. "Why not?"

"_Why not_? Well, because it's _Mycroft's_ money, and you might be happy to take it from him, but I'm not!"

"Hmm." She could tell from his distracted expression that he'd already dismissed her ethical qualms and moved on to other matters. "We could take a run down there and have a look. You're off this Sunday."

"Oh, Sherlock, _no_!" But the gleam in his eye told her that she'd already lost this battle.

She sighed. "For heaven's sake! Why'd you want to go poking around some old country cottage?"

"Simple. Because, thirty-one years ago, a woman was murdered in it. And I intend to find out who did it, how and why."


	42. Chapter 42

**Well, I bet you all thought I'd dropped off the face of the Earth! I've been really quite ill for the last six weeks – nearly two months, in fact. Been investigated for a possible serious health issue, had the flu, and then, when I was just getting over that, caught another vicious virus, had a health emergency over the weekend… You name it, I've had it. So if you've been in touch, I will get back to you, I promise.**

**So, here's the next chapter. You may recognise the inspiration I took for Sherlock's case from a certain Conan Doyle story…with just a little twist to my version! BTW, the creature he described in that story was made up, so I went with the species that, according to the experts, most resembles the physical description. And the house is named after a real house nestled in the foothills of the Long Mynd mountain range in Shropshire, which features heavily in a series of books by one of my favourite children's authors. It has no connection; I just slipped it in there. I've located the house itself near the house in East Dean which is presumed to be the location for Sherlock Holmes' retirement, and I also took inspiration from the house that featured in the recent film "Mr. Holmes", which I can highly recommend.**

**Usual disclaimers apply.**

* * *

**Chapter 42**

October had been a month of apparently endless grey cloud and depressing drizzle. Molly wasn't the hot weather type and could usually shrug off the occasional damp autumn month, but even she was beginning to crave sunshine and blue skies.

And now, on this Sunday, the very last day of October, the sun had decided to show its face as if in a final show of defiance before autumn gave way to winter. It was just _typical_, Molly mused, as she drove south from London on the M23; the day was shaping up to be the perfect winter day. The sort of bright, sparkling, sunny weather that showed the verdant British countryside off at its very best. Precisely what she _didn't_ want.

As they left Gatwick Airport and Crawley behind, and the motorway became the A23, busy suburbia gave way to the green rolling hills of the high Weald, the winter sunshine making the autumn foliage stand out vividly against a rich blue sky. They had left London very early to make the most of the short autumn day. It was still before nine and almost eerily quiet on the East Sussex roads.

"I'd have expected it to be _busier_ than this, somehow. Mycroft was right – this isn't a bad run at all."

Molly cast a grim glance in John's direction. He was taking his ease in the front passenger seat, looking annoyingly relaxed. As well he might! _She_ was the one currently driving Mary's unreliable old car, which had stiff gears and a tendency to lose speed going up the steeper hills. John couldn't drive at the moment due to a fractured wrist. And Mary had been stuck at home at the last minute, with Ellie coming down with what looked suspiciously like chickenpox. Meanwhile, Sherlock had thrown himself into the back of the car without a word to anyone the moment the taxi had dropped them at the Watson's little terraced house in East Finchley. Molly had had to drive around the North and South Circular and out of south London, muttering under her breath. She wasn't particularly keen on driving, and could think of far better ways of spending her day off. To say nothing of the fact that she wasn't actually insured to drive this rickety old vehicle…

Sherlock had been a man possessed since Mycroft's visit three days' ago, pulling out old newspaper articles on the case and using all his influence to obtain a copy of the autopsy. Julia Roy, a forty-three year old artist, had been living alone in the house at the time of her death. From what Molly could ascertain, she'd been an old school friend of Mrs. Holmes and trying to make a living through holiday lets at the time, hence their childhood holidays at the house. Molly didn't get the impression she had been a particularly efficient landlady, so Sherlock's mother must have kept up the arrangement out of loyalty.

"So fill us in," John continued. "What's so exciting about this case? How did she die for a start?"

"Heart attack," Sherlock responded tersely.

Molly glanced in the mirror at him. After passing a thin paper file to John, he had slouched back on the seat and was currently staring out of the window at the passing countryside with apparent interest.

"And you think it was murder?" John asked. "Based on _what_ exactly? Something missed in the autopsy? How would you have known _that_ at – what were you? Eight?"

"_Nine_." Sherlock's voice was sharp. "And I _knew_ because I _observed_."

"Even then?" John's voice betrayed his scepticism.

"_Yes _– even then… I knew because I knew _her_," Sherlock added unexpectedly after another tense pause. "I liked her. She was like me - she saw things as they really were."

"Because she was an artist, I suppose," Molly murmured, doubtfully.

"_Yes_ – although not a particularly good one. She had some limited artistic talent, but more importantly, she had a good eye… She saw things as they really were," he repeated, quietly, as if to himself. "Which is odd, because…"

He trailed away, his voice distracted. Molly glanced in the mirror at him again and noted the preoccupied frown.

John raised an eyebrow and opened the file that Sherlock had passed to him. "So…she was an artist. And seeking a divorce from her husband… Dr. Graham Roy? I'd already heard of him of course, but I Googled him this morning. Epidemiologist, sterling career with the World Health Organisation, lives in Geneva -."

"At the time of her death," Sherlock interrupted, "he had volunteered for Medicin Sans Frontieres. He was often out of the country and out of contact, so her divorce application was frequently delayed – I remember her talking about it to Mummy, suggesting that he was deliberately trying to slow things down. She had moved out of their flat in London and was living in this cottage. She had inherited it from her mother."

"OK." John pulled out a copy of the coroner's report. "And…says here she died immediately. Just…dropped dead? That's a little unusual. No signs of cardiovascular disease beforehand; she was in good health. Just a massive cardiac arrest. And the autopsy revealed nothing unusual. No injuries, apart from those consistent with a fall onto flagstones in front of a fireplace – and they were post-mortem, so she must have already been dead when she hit the ground. No one else present at the time; her body was discovered by a visiting friend at 10.49, roughly forty minutes after death. Simply…a natural death by sudden and massive cardiac arrest. So the autopsy concluded, anyway."

"Unusual, but it does happen," Molly said, after a few minutes of silent contemplation. "John, we're coming into Brighton – is this where I turn onto the A27?"

John shuffled his papers clumsily to locate the map. A few lively moments ensued while they attempted to avoid driving into Brighton by accident. After going around a roundabout a couple of times and exchanging some choice words about his navigation skills, they managed to get onto the right road.

"She was afraid of him," Sherlock announced a few minutes later.

"How do you know?" John asked. As if realising that this was likely to get a scathing response, he added, "OK, forget that. But where was he when she died?"

"He'd just arrived in Rome for a conference. He had left his London flat early that morning for the 7.30 flight from Gatwick. The perfect alibi." Sherlock's voice was flat.

"Well, it does seem like it if she really died at 10.09. Unless he had someone working for him…but I take it there was no sign of a stranger coming or going on the day?" John mused. "In a place like that, _someone_ would have noticed them."

"Could it have been some kind of slow-acting agent?" Molly asked. "Something that had been slipped in her morning tea perhaps? I suppose it's just possible that he could have left home earlier than he had claimed and driven here first?"

"Nothing in the toxicology report," Sherlock replied before John could look.

Molly carefully navigated the section south of Arundel before asking him the obvious question. "So…what makes you think it was murder?"

"I don't - _absolutely_. However, the timing is suspicious. Julia didn't have much money. She was expecting to get a good pay-out from the divorce, which was why she thought that Graham was trying to delay it. The house was all she'd inherited from her mother, as far as she knew. She didn't know her father, as he had walked out on the family when she was a baby and hadn't kept in touch – he'd had no money, so her mother hadn't tried to claim child support. Turns out he had died a few weeks' before, having made a considerable fortune in oil. He hadn't remarried, and despite making no attempt to contact Julia during his lifetime, had left her his sole heir. His lawyers had been trying to contact her via her old London address." Sherlock paused before adding drily. "So, since they were still married and Julia hadn't thought to change her will, Graham became a widower _and_ a multi-millionaire in the same week. In another couple of weeks, once the divorce papers had been signed, it might have been very different."

"And you _knew_ all of this at the time?" John asked, incredulously.

"Of course not, don't be so _dense_, John! I was only nine years' old!" Sherlock paused again. "It was more a…feeling. Just a sense that something wasn't quite right. The strange thing is that Mummy seemed to feel the same way – at first, anyway. I remember there was an odd look in her eyes when she first got the news… But then, when I said something about it, she told me not to be so silly. She didn't want me to embarrass her at the funeral."

By now, Molly was driving on a more minor road that required her full concentration. She zoned out of the conversation as Sherlock continued to outline his suspicions. As they approached the little village of Friston and East Dean, the road became a winding, tree-lined, single track in places; consequently she reduced her speed further and kept a wary eye on the various passing places.

Almost as if they sensed the final approach to the house, the men fell silent and John leaned forward eagerly to peer around the corners. "You turn off just before you get to the village," he reminded Molly.

On the outskirts of the village, Molly braked and turned into a narrow lane on the right. It didn't seem to be leading anywhere apart from a farm up a hill in the distance, and she wondered if she'd made a mistake, but roughly six hundred yards from the main road, they came across a gravel driveway on the left. She braked again. "Do you think _this _is it?"

"Well, the village is just over there, so I think it must be. Probably best to turn into the driveway and see if there's a sign on the house," John suggested, practically. "Sherlock, do you recognise it?"

Sherlock didn't answer, but his reply was moot; as Molly took a sharp turn into the driveway and stopped in front of the closed gate, they saw a sign set into the low stone wall next to it. Prior's Holt. The property's name on the deeds that Mycroft had given them.

As John got out to open the metal gate, Molly stared up at the solid redbrick house, catching her breath in surprise. The photographs hadn't really done justice to the sheer _solidity_ of the building…that and the warmth of the brick in the morning sun. The building sat, squat and comfortable and old-fashioned, in a rambling garden – quite close to the minor farm road on this side, but she could see that the drystone wall extended some distance at the back. It wasn't quite in open countryside either – at least not as open as it had seemed in the photographs. There was in fact a small copse of trees to the left of the house, cutting it off neatly from the village and the main road, while, on the right, the wall formed a boundary to a large ploughed field that must belong to the farm they could see up the hill.

John stood by the open gate, staring up at the house with frank curiosity as Molly drove carefully in and parked the car by the wall on the right. The front garden was mostly given over to gravel, and she estimated that it would be possible to fit two or three vehicles in this area.

Sherlock got out and strode over to the front door, pulling the property's keys out of his coat pocket. Molly half-expected him to disappear inside immediately, but he paused by the low front door, his fingers going up to feel around the eaves carefully.

"It _is_ the place," he called over his shoulder. "I remember now that there was a key hidden up here on a hook when we first arrived. Mummy found it. Julia was out somewhere and had told her to let herself in. And here's the hook. Empty now, of course." After pointing it out to John, he turned the key in the solid door and pushed it open.

Molly paused to lock the car before walking slowly towards the door. Her reluctance to enter the house surprised her; for some reason, her heart was thumping loudly in her ears as she followed John into the dim hallway. Sherlock had already disappeared, of course.

The hall was cold and smelt damp and musty; Molly paused to adjust her eyes to the dimmer light. It was fairly nicely decorated and not as rustic as she might have imagined. The floors were oak-panelled and there was a wooden staircase straight ahead of her, leading to the upper floor. On this level, there were further heavy wooden doors – two to the left and one to the right, and a smallish window in the back wall.

The walls and floor were gloomy with dust and overall there was a strong feeling of decay, but the walls had been papered nicely, probably only a few years' ago judging by the style and quality. Someone had at least made an attempt to retain the building's original features and to complement them with the decor. She wondered who had owned the house before Janine had bought it and how long it had been left empty. It didn't look as if _she_ had ever visited it, anyway. Perhaps she really _had_ bought it out of spite…

John echoed her thoughts. "Wonder how long it's been since someone lived here? Looks like it was done up at some point fairly recently…but the person couldn't have made much use of it." He shrugged. "Probably some rich city oik who had to sell when the bottom dropped out of the market.

Molly walked slowly across the hallway, passing beneath the bulk of the wooden staircase to peer out of a small dusty window at the back of the hall. The garden was south-facing and the morning light beamed across the dusty panes; in a couple of hours, the sun would shine in fully, warming the hallway up, although the size of the window meant that it probably wouldn't have all that much impact.

She could just make out that the garden sloped steeply upwards to the back – in fact, a paved terrace had been cut into the ground immediately outside and there were stone steps leading up onto a rough lawn at about shoulder height. Little attempt had been made to keep the garden tidy; there were some signs of old vegetable plots now well and truly overgrown, and further away up the slope she could make out some fruit trees – apple, plum and possibly cherry – scattered across the garden. She couldn't quite see the back boundary at this angle. Her mother would be hissing through her teeth at the sight of this neglected, overgrown garden – and rolling up her sleeves to get to work. And yet, Molly rather liked the ramshackle effect.

John joined her at the window. "That terrace must be quite a sun trap in the summer. You'd want a patio door right here, and then it'd let more light in…although I suppose that might ruin the 'original' look of the place? What's this? Cupboard? Cellar?"

There was a door under the stairs, but it seemed to be locked. "Perhaps Sherlock's got a key – where is he, anyway?" Without waiting for an answer to that, he turned away, running his palm over the thickly wallpapered wall as he passed through the door to the right of the front entrance. The door opposite it on the left was already open; Molly suspected that Sherlock had gone that way.

"Brrr! You'd want to get central heating put in," John called, his voice echoing. "I guess this place is probably OK if it's always occupied and the fires are kept lit most of the winter, but…_wow_! That's some fireplace. Come and see!"

Molly stared at the bare fruit trees for a moment longer, imagining them lush with spring blossom or heavy with fruit in August and September…before shivering violently and turning away. Her feet dragged as they took her into what turned out to be a large, old-fashioned kitchen, with an enormous stone fireplace. She cast an uncertain look at the rough flagstones, the exposed beams above her head and the brick walls. There were a few windows along the front and back walls, but they were too small and dusty to let much light in. This end of the long room was dominated by the fireplace, but the other end contained a surprisingly modern kitchen range.

"It's still useable, I think," John commented as he bent to investigate the fireplace. "That explains the working chimney. But you'd probably want to fit a more modern wood-burning stove inside to reduce the costs of keeping it going. This could be a nice cosy spot with a couple of armchairs…" He straightened up and walked towards the kitchen range. "You've got some mod-cons too, I see. Someone's put in that oven not too many years ago. And what's through here?" He opened a door at the far end. "A dining room too – look! Lovely views over the farmland. They've made better use of the light in here."

Molly followed him into a smaller but pleasantly situated room, prettily decorated in light green. It was at the far end of the ground floor, with windows in three of the walls. It was bright and cheerful in the morning sun and rather surprisingly was still furnished, the sun shining down onto a dusty table and six matching chairs. Its comparative compactness was a relief after the dark, rather over-bearing kitchen. A large, heavy-looking oak dresser dominated the fourth wall. John whistled, running an appreciative hand over it and opening one of the carved doors.

"I don't pretend to know much about antiques, but _that's_ got to be worth a bit. Wonder who left it behind – and why?"

"Perhaps they were moving somewhere smaller and didn't have the space for it," Molly muttered, her voice sounding stilted in her own ears. She walked over to the south-facing window.

"Molly? What's wrong? You've been in a funny mood all morning."

"It's nothing. Just a bit tired or something." The garden was sloping at this end too, but the bigger window gave her a better view. The contrast between the straggly overgrown lawn and the smartly ploughed field on the other side of the wall presented a startling contrast. She saw a stone bench positioned by the wall in a sheltered position and felt a stab of nausea at the shabby prettiness of it all.

"_Rubbish_! Something is worrying you. Is it this house? Come on – sit down here and just _talk_ to me. _Please_, Molly."

She turned to look at him. John had pulled out a couple of the chairs, dusting hers off with the coat sleeve of his healthy arm, and she felt her lips tugging into a reluctant smile at the slightly awkward gallantry.

She sighed as she sat down. "Oh, I don't know, John. Only, don't you sometimes wish that your life wasn't _constantly_ taken over by the Holmes' 'clan'?"

John leaned on the dusty table, his face serious. "So, _that's _what this is about? Do you resent Mycroft? – I assume this is about _Mycroft_ really, not Sherlock? _He_ doesn't try to take your life over, does he? As far as I can see, you have a pretty independent life – you don't get dragged into cases at all times of the day and night, like _I_ did when I lived there." He frowned at his hands. "I _had_ assumed everything was OK between the two of you. I was also bloody _amazed_, to be honest, especially with _his_ history, but you seem to work somehow…?"

"Oh – _no_, we're _fine_," she said quickly. "Sherlock and I are fine – it's all good." She smiled. "Better than good, in fact. It's just that – well, _you_ know. With Sherlock comes Mycroft… And he's been brilliant – so generous to me, and I even quite like him in an odd way – a very odd way, admittedly… But he does have a way of making you kind-of… _beholden_… doesn't he? I mean, the loan was one thing, but this _house_…" She grimaced. "I don't _want_ to like it - that's the trouble."

"I _see_." John rested his chin on his hand, his sandy hair shining silver in the low winter sun. "But you _knew_ all that beforehand, didn't you? You _knew _what Mycroft was like. To be honest, I don't have an awful lot of sympathy with you here, Molly," he added, smiling warmly at her to take away the sting.

"Thanks," she responded, drily.

He laughed. "Well, I _don't_, really. The guy has just gifted you a _house_, for heaven's sake! He hasn't put any conditions on it either – there's nothing to stop you selling up and using the money to buy all three flats at Baker Street if you really wanted to." He raised a hand to stop Molly's protestations. "Yeah, yeah, I understand – you want to know what he wants in return, don't you? But I think you know the answer to _that_ already."

She ran her fingers through the dust on the oak table, reflecting idly that it'd look beautiful once it had been polished up to a fine shine. "Where _I_ come from," she pointed out, "you don't just give someone an expensive country cottage on a whim."

John shrugged and grinned. "Well, now you know how much money Mycroft has…and how much he can afford to give away. And you _know_ what he's like. Why else do you think Sherlock has tried to keep his distance from Mycroft over the years? And why Sherrinford refuses to work with him again? OK, so Mycroft is a master manipulator. But, if it helps, I don't think he means _you_ any harm. He thinks you're good for his brother – and, despite appearances, he loves him. He's grateful to you. But I'm pretty damn sure that if things didn't work out with Sherlock, he wouldn't hold it against you. For what it's worth, I believe he actually _likes_ you – and for _yourself_, not just because you happen to be Sherlock's partner."

"So…" Molly leaned back in her chair and opened her arms wide. "Would _you_ accept all this as a gift? Without worrying about the consequences?"

"He wouldn't offer it to me, so I'll never have to worry about it," John said, frankly. "But if he did… yeah. I would. And be grateful."

"And do anything he wanted you to?" she asked, doubtfully.

John grinned. "You make a good point. But…well, I already _do_, don't I? As long as it makes sense and wouldn't put my wife or daughter at risk. I already _have_ worked on things for him. And so would _you_, if he asked you. And I don't think you'd mind, either. Don't you trust Mycroft? He's one of the good guys, after all - so they tell me."

She laughed. "You've come a long way from 'Sherlock's arch enemy'!"

He joined her, but then turned serious again. "But you _would_ help him, wouldn't you? And it has nothing to do with gratitude or 'payback'. You'd do it because he's _your_ brother too now. Like it or not, you're _part_ of that Holmes' clan."

He glanced at the expression on her face and sighed. "What's this _really _about, Molly? Isn't it more that… that you're worried about getting _too_ involved with them – with _him_? After all, although you've moved in and started playing at all that domestic stuff, you've still got your flat, haven't you? If you really wanted to, if things got too _difficult,_ you could leave Sherlock, go back to your old life. You've still got an opportunity to _escape_. Just like you escaped from Tom."

"Escape?" She rose from her chair, suddenly and unreasonably furious with him. "You really think I could just _leave_ him, knowing how he feels about me? Who do you think I am? I _love_ him!"

John raised his plastered hand in apology, leaning back to look up at her. "OK, I'm _sorry_…but in that case, why don't you sell your flat? Throw all your money in with Sherlock's and buy 221B off Mrs. Hudson? She'd sell up in a heartbeat and you could afford it together."

She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. "It…it's not that I don't want to commit. It's just… Sherlock and I… we're not _like _other people! We don't 'settle down' and do all that stuff – marriage, kids. He's – he's just not a domestic person…and that's… it's _fine_ with me. I'm _happy_ the way we are."

"For everyone," John said, delicately, after a meaningful pause, "_somewhere_ has to be home, in the end. 221B Baker Street may be the closest you and Sherlock will ever get to it."

Even as he said it, he glanced doubtfully around the pretty little room. Molly swallowed, sensing the direction of his thoughts. Yes, she _could _imagine it all too easily… Eating her breakfast off this beautiful wooden table, as the sun shone through the windows. Happily planning her day and then glancing up at Sherlock as he gulped his black coffee and frowned over the contents of a chemistry journal. Far away from the dangers and enticements of London…

She tried to change the subject. "_You_ wouldn't want to leave London though, would you? You'd die of boredom out here, in the middle of nowhere."

"Well, no…but _you_ don't have to do that either, do you? Keep it as a holiday home or a weekend bolthole – or perhaps run it as a business, to make back some of the money you're going to have to spend to update it." John pushed back his chair and got up. "Or maybe Sherlock could have a laboratory here? Get back into serious research, write papers, that kind of thing. He seems to be losing his taste for the all-night cases. Let's go and have a look at the rest of it."

He turned practical again as they walked back through the kitchen. "All this is fine, although you might want to get a Corgi engineer to give the appliances the once-over. And put in gas central heating throughout - you don't want to be dependent on wood burners all the time. And it needs brightening up. I'd get some of this front wall knocked through – put in a couple of picture windows to get more light. You've got room for a big kitchen table here. We've already talked about the hall – I honestly think French doors at the back, leading out onto that sunny patio, is the best solution. And you might want to put in a loo under the stairs, unless there's one behind one of these doors…"

By mutual consent, they walked up the stairs before tackling the ground floor doors situated to the left of the entrance. The ceiling on the upper level was low-beamed, but a long carpeted landing led into three decent-sized bedrooms, a fourth bedroom that was more of a box-room, and finally a large bathroom in need of serious updating. None of the rooms were furnished and John pointed out various flaws that would need fixing, including cracked panes and loose floorboards, but it was all surprisingly charming.

The biggest bedroom stood at the south-west of the building, with large windows giving views of the rambling garden and the thick copse of trees beyond. Molly was interested to see that there appeared to be a little path running through it and wondered where it led – to the village, perhaps? Or down to the sea? She seemed to recall from John's map that it was around three miles or so to Birling Gap.

From here, she could see the back garden's full length, including some oddly shaped wooden structures at the far end of it, which must be the fabled bee-hives. There was also a long stone structure running down the west side of the house – evidently some sort of workshop."

"You see," John murmured at her shoulder, a smile in his voice. "A _laboratory_."

She elbowed him away, grinning, and stepped towards the door, pausing briefly to give the room a last thoughtful look. It was a light elegant room with a window seat at the far end. With a couple of cushions, it'd be a lovely place to sit in the late afternoon or early evening, with the sun setting behind those trees…

"Molly! John! Where are you?"

Sherlock's voice floated up from the floor below.

John leaned over the bannister. "We're here. What's up?"

"Come and see."

They hurried downstairs, following Sherlock into the first room on the left of the front door, the one opposite the kitchen. It was equally large, and had a matching stone fireplace. Molly glanced around her; the long room had built-in wooden shelves almost the entire length of the room, although it also had a number of rather larger windows to the front wall and wasn't quite as dark as the kitchen.

"It's the library," Sherlock commented, noticing her look. "I remember there were lots of books in here, and at the far end, there's a sitting room. And a study around the back of this, overlooking the garden. And there should be a wine cellar too, with a door under the stairs. Julia kept canvases down there. But that's not the interesting thing. Look at the fireplace – or rather, look _above_ it."

Molly looked up. The stonework looked very similar to that of the kitchen fireplace, and there was also a long carved wooden shelf running along the top of it, but above that, there were some dusty red and black drapes hanging down from the ceiling. Some form of decoration, she supposed, noting that they were oddly arranged, with asymmetric folds. It was tempting to reach up and tweak them straight, but she had a horrible feeling that the entire hanging would disintegrate if she tried.

"John, where's that file I gave you?"

"Oh, sorry – it's in the car. Do you want me to get it?"

"No need, I've memorised it," Sherlock responded impatiently. "But do you remember seeing a letter in there?" At John's look of incomprehension, he continued. "It was a letter than Julia sent Mummy, and she always kept it. She said she didn't know quite why, except that she found she still had it after Julia's death and she didn't like to destroy it then. Sentimentality. Or maybe she knew it was significant – significant enough to send it to me when I told her I was visiting the cottage."

"Why? What did it say?" asked Molly, staring up at the fireplace. So _this_ must be where Julia Roy had died. Dropping dead onto the flagstones in front of the fire…

Sherlock paused. "In it, Julia mentioned a particular incident. She said it illustrated Graham's cruelty and was one of the reasons why she left him. He was friendly with a biologist who'd worked in various tropical locations and owned a number of exotic animals – spiders, reptiles and so on. This friend owned an Indian cobra – a highly venomous snake, and a single bite can cause cardiac arrest almost instantaneously."

John's jaw dropped. "You don't think…? But _wait_, the autopsy said -."

"_No_, John, I _don't_ think that Graham Roy left a venomous snake in his estranged wife's house just on the off-chance that she might get bitten by it," Sherlock interrupted, with an air of forced patience.

"Then why bring it up?"

"As I was saying, Julia mentioned an incident that had obviously upset her. She was afraid of snakes. I remember that, because I found an adder once, in some rough ground near that copse when we were out walking. She turned white and screamed; I remember Mummy came running… Anyway, it seemed that Graham had invited his friend for dinner and had decided it might be amusing if he brought this particular snake with him to show it off. He must have talked his friend into letting it out for bit of a joke – putting it somewhere where Julia would be startled by it. Of course, the snake would have had its venom glands removed, but she wouldn't have known that. In her letter, she told Mummy that she had pulling the curtains straight in the lounge and the snake had reared up at her from behind them…"

Sherlock paused and let this sink in, before going on reflectively. "The Indian cobra has a very distinctive colour. Salt-and-pepper speckles. And the colour on the underside varies tremendously, from yellow or grey through to red, brown and black. But I suspect that _this_ particular snake was red and black."

"Why?"

Sherlock smirked up at the red and black drapes. "Do you see how misshapen they are? That would have annoyed someone like Julia. She had a strong sense of the aesthetic – liked curtains to be hanging properly and so on…" He looked at Molly and nodded at them. "Why don't you pull that straight?"

She shrugged and stood on tiptoe to reach the thickly fringed hanging, giving it a tweak to pull out the creases…and screamed, jumping back as a long, thick, black-and-red and speckled cord fell from the folds and slapped into the wall to one side of the fireplace.

"And _that_," said Sherlock, unable to hide the triumph from his voice, "is how Julia Roy died."

After a startled pause, John leaned forward and prodded at the thick cord. "You mean she thought _this_ was a _snake_? But that alone wouldn't be enough to give a previously healthy woman a heart attack!"

"You're seeing it from a purely medical point of view," Sherlock countered. "You're ignoring the power of fear…and the power of suggestion. You see, Julia had been the victim of a number of frightening tricks. This was just one of them. She was terrified of Graham. He was very clever. On the surface, he seemed to be the victim - _she_ had left _him_, after all. But I believe he was a sadist. I suspect that, even now, if you were to probe, you would find a fair number of colleagues who would refuse to work with him again, and probably an equal number of women who have been knocked around by him in the bedroom. He exploited Julia's fears mercilessly. And she was terrified of being left alone in this house. Every summer, we seemed to stay longer. She would find any excuse to keep us with her for as long as possible. Eventually, it was all that Mummy could do to leave – she'd have to get Father to ring with some excuse just to get us home. Julia was already very nervy; she wasn't sure what he would do next and she feared for her life."

Sherlock lifted the bottom of the hangings, showing how the top of the cord had been crudely tacked on. "He must have broken in here at some point while she was away and sewn this on, and then he tucked it up under the hem here and pushed the hanging back into place. He knew that, if Julia was expecting a guest, she'd do her usual routine of tidying up, straightening things and so on. At some point, sooner or later, she'd spot that irregularity in the fold and tweak it out, just as Molly did. And _then_…"

"I still find it very hard to believe," John said, after another pause.

"Do you? Then take a look at _this_."

Sherlock had been typing on his phone; he showed the screen to John and Molly, who both did a double-take. He was right – there _was _an extraordinary likeness between the image of an Indian cobra and the speckled cord that was hanging down.

"But...did he come in here _afterwards_ and put the cord back up?" asked Molly. "How did you discover it?"

"It was already hanging down. The people who bought the house from Graham refurbished it, and I assume he thought they would get rid of the old drapes, but evidently they liked them enough to keep them. They didn't see the significance of the cord, of course. Hanging down like this, it looks like an old gong used to summon a servant. And since they were trying to maintain the house's original features, they evidently decided to leave the decoration as it was. When I saw it, I realised it wasn't supposed to be part of the original hanging. The crude nature of the tacking just confirmed my suspicions. And when I lifted it up and let it fall out of the folds… You see, Julia had described the cobra's appearance quite vividly in her letter to Mummy. It had made a strong impression. And, as I said before, she always had a very good eye… She saw things as they really were…" he added, quietly.

"So it was odd that she didn't see _this_ for what it really was," Molly finished for him, equally softly.

Sherlock smiled at her. "Indeed… Anyway, that is my deduction. You can take it or leave it, John, but there is no other explanation. Julia Roy _was_ murdered… to a certain degree."

John frowned. "You mean, because you'd never be able to prove that Graham _meant _to kill her with this? For all he knew, she could have received just an awful shock."

Sherlock nodded. "I suspect his plan _was_ to drive her to an early grave…but through _suicide_. As I said, I think this was only one of many cruel tricks played on her over several years. He intended to make her life so unbearable that she wouldn't be able to carry on." He paused. "In fact, many of their friends already thought that she'd gone a little mad just by leaving the marital home and trying to make a living as an artist, so they wouldn't have been very surprised to hear that she'd taken an overdose. Even Mummy was quite concerned about her mental health."

John was quiet for a moment before muttering "_bastard_" under his breath.

"Dr. Roy has made himself just a little _too_ prominent at the World Health Organization," Sherlock said, airily. "It wouldn't much to ruin his reputation. Just a little _tweak_ of some of his recent research findings… Although no doubt they are stored in a secure location at the WHO database in Geneva. What a shame it is that we don't know of _anyone_ with the necessary skill-set to hack into a secure government system…"

John stared at him for a moment and then grinned. "_Yes_. What a _shame_."

"Well." Sherlock clapped his hands together, seeming to dismiss the case from his mind. "Have you seen enough of the inside? There should be a door to the garden through the lounge, as I remember..."

He crossed the library to the lounge at the far end, opening the door and disappearing through it, John in his wake.

Molly started to follow them, but hesitated, glancing up at the red and black hangings with a shudder. Standing on tiptoe once more, she gave them a hard tug and the dusty old material gave way, crashing to the ground. With a satisfied nod, she turned away and followed the others across the library and into a low-ceilinged little sitting room with a wood burner and a door into the garden.

She smiled at the sound of John's voice. "Did you notice the bee-hives? And there was an outbuilding that looked very suitable for a laboratory…"

* * *

"OK," she said, as soon as Mycroft answered the phone. "You win."

"_I really don't know what you're talking about_." To be fair to Mycroft, he _did_ sound genuinely bewildered. But, on the other hand, this _was_ Mycroft…

"It's going to take me a bit longer than I planned to pay you back that loan," she told him, firmly. "There's a lot of work to be done on the house. But we don't need any more money from you. I'm going to sell my flat to pay for the repairs."

There was the longest pause on the other end of the line. And then, eventually, and very quietly:

"_Thank you, Molly_."

And Mycroft disconnected the call.


	43. Chapter 43

**Chapter 43**

"Don't you think you're taking this house business just a _bit _too far?"

Molly looked up from her laptop, startled.

John was sitting on the other side of her desk, nursing a coffee mug. Sherlock was in one of his absorbed moods and had already 'borrowed' a cadaver for several hours when his partner-in-crime-investigation had arrived at Bart's to talk to him about some kind of security matter that Mycroft wanted them to investigate.

Sherlock had grown less inclined to turn down his brother's cases as a matter of course, but equally he wouldn't abandon an experiment unless it was very important The fact that he had told John to wait for him suggested that the case might rate an 8 at least on his personal scale of interest. While he was waiting, John had sought out Molly for a coffee and a well-overdue chat.

At her confused expression, he elaborated. "Does it _really_ need to take up every single free weekend and _all_ your annual leave? We hardly see you in London these days. Doesn't Sherlock mind?"

She shrugged, trying to hide her annoyance. "Well, _you_ were the one who told me not to turn down Mycroft's gift. And you said it yourself – there's a lot to do."

John frowned. "Structurally – _yes_, there _was_ a lot to sort out. And internal fittings. But the builders finished ages ago. When we came in April, I thought it was looking great. As far as I can tell, you're just tweaking stuff. Moving furniture around. Constantly touching things up."

"Got to get it exactly right," she muttered.

"Right for _what_? That's what interests me. I thought the two of you had decided to let it. Well, it's already in a perfect condition for rental."

Molly hesitated. It was true that they _had_ decided to get a local estate agent to manage it as a long-term rental, and she couldn't entirely say why she hadn't done anything about that yet.

"Do you want to move into it yourself?" John's expression was annoyingly understanding. "Because I wouldn't blame you. It's a lovely house. But I didn't think you felt ready to leave Bart's – and London? And as for Sherlock…"

"What _about_ Sherlock?" She tried not to snap, but it had been a long and trying day at the end of a long and trying week, and she'd been looking forward to a cosy takeaway for two accompanied by some crappy TV and, with any luck, an early night. And _now_ it looked likely that Sherlock wouldn't be coming home tonight…

"He's not ready to retire," John said, quietly.

"What makes you think I _want_ him to? And why would he need to retire anyway, even if we did move away? What – you think that nothing interesting ever happens in Sussex?"

John paused before going on, just as quietly. "London is his home, Molly."

She looked at her laptop meaningfully. "Do you have some kind of point to make? Because I need to get this report ready for court on Monday. And I _was_ hoping to get away soon -."

John leaned across the desk. "It feels like you're trying to change him, Molly. And you always said you'd never do that."

"And I _haven't_!" She felt close to tears suddenly. "Have I _ever_ complained? He still does his own thing – _you_ of all people must know that. I never know when to expect him home these days. Do you know what it's _like_, coming home and never knowing _quite_ what to expect behind that front door?"

"As a matter of fact, I _do_," he replied, quietly. "It's fun at first – right? A kind of never-ending adventure. But after a while, it gets wearing, especially when you're the one who's _always_ picking up the milk and making sure the bills are paid. Doing the boring stuff, because you know he won't. And constantly having to navigate his experiments and putting up with clients coming and going. And worrying about what's happening to him when he isn't there and he doesn't answer your texts. There's no such thing as an average day at Baker Street. Molly, is _that_ why you keep going down there whenever you can? Because it's peaceful and – and _predictable_?"

Before Molly could answer, the door opened and Sherlock's head appeared around it. He took the two of them in and blinked at the obvious tension before looking at Molly. "All finished. Told that woman – what's her name – to put the body back."

Molly smiled wryly. 'That woman' would be Cassie, a wide-eyed innocent who idolised Sherlock. Once he'd realised he could no longer charm Molly into providing cadavers on demand, he'd turned his attention elsewhere.

She stood up. "I'd probably better check on that." Cassie might be a willing victim of Sherlock's charm, but she wasn't the most efficient of laboratory assistants and might not do a good enough job of covering up for him. "You really shouldn't keep doing this," she warned him, trying to sound severe. If you'd needed a cadaver, I've got a list of donations. Poor old Mr. Warner isn't on it."

Sherlock sensibly chose not to respond to this, instead raising his eyebrows at John. "So what has my dear brother done now?" He gave Molly another quick look. "Expect me when you see me."

John got up to follow him out of the office. At the door, he paused and looked back at Molly.

"Look, if you don't want to let that house, _fine_. But, in the long term, can you _really_ afford the running costs for both it and 221B without getting any rent?" He shook his head. "You can't live two lives, Molly. You're going to have to make a decision."

* * *

The months had passed, and slowly, slowly, the house had taken shape.

Determined words to Mycroft were one thing, but Molly had limited experience of this kind of project, and there were a lot of problems to be fixed. As predicted, her flat sold quickly and at a higher price than she could have hoped for, which was a relief. She'd camped out at the house one weekend early in December and spent the days pottering around it and making notes of how much needed to be done. The list seemed endless.

The main difficulty was the distance that the house stood from London, complicated by her busy work schedule. With that in mind, she'd gone down to Eastbourne to scout out building firms that could project manage the entire rebuild. She'd struck lucky with an efficient project manager. Even so, she found herself frequently having to go down and make decisions.

She found that she could manage a day's visit fairly easily by getting a train to Eastbourne and driving from there. To save on taxis or car hire, she'd used some of the money from the flat sale to buy a battered old second-hand car, which she kept parked near Eastbourne rail station for a small fee.

January, February and March were a whirlwind of building activity. The back wall was knocked through to accommodate French doors and larger double-glazed windows went in throughout. Central heating was installed. A new bathroom was put in and part of the largest bedroom was turned into a small en-suite shower room. Walls were re-plastered; broken floorboards replaced. A new eco-friendly wood burner was added to the sitting room for added cosiness, but she decided to seal off the big fireplaces in the kitchen and library, as the new radiators running the length of the two rooms would generate enough heat.

The kitchen was completely remodelled - even though the original fittings had been fairly new, Molly decided to put in a more contemporary range which, with the new windows, made the kitchen look light and airy.

Oh, and the furniture! She'd initially been planning to let the place out unfurnished, but while it was being redecorated, it had seemed silly not to put in _some _bits and pieces to make the place look more 'liveable'. She had spent several weekends at various second-hand furniture outlets and auctions and had managed to purchase sofas, armchairs, floor rugs, sideboards and coffee tables for the library and small sitting room, along with a large kitchen table and chairs. Mary came with her on a number of occasions and proved to be a savvy haggler. As the bank balance was starting to look shaky, she turned to IKEA to get the beds and bedroom furniture and most of the decorative fittings, crockery and kitchen utensils.

To save money on decorators, she took a fortnight off work in April and re-decorated the entire house mostly by herself. The only room she left entirely alone was the pretty green dining room. The kitchen was decorated in sunny light yellow and the upstairs rooms largely in neutral off-white, although she chose a beautiful shade of pale gold for the master bedroom. The dark wood of the library was made lighter with pale blue wallpaper – _anything_ to replace the memory of those sinister black and red hangings. The fireplace itself she decorated with a large blue-and-white vase and a few old-fashioned ornaments picked up from various second hand shops. The rather masculine-looking study she left mainly alone, just repainting it from burgundy to light cream to make the atmosphere a little less heavy. For some reason, that room left her cold, even though it faced the garden. Possibly Sherlock might make some use of it eventually. _If_ they ever lived there, of course.

The sitting room proved to be her favourite room of all – low beamed and cosy with the wood burning stove, it fit her idea of a country cottage. It was south-west facing and she could see that while it would be pleasantly warm on a sunny winter day, it might get hot in the summer, especially as it had windows on three sides. She took a while to decide what colour it should be before choosing muted cool shades of light grey and lilac.

John and Mary joined her for part of her second week of decorating, and while Mary re-papered the hall in old-fashioned ivory damask fabric, John laid the new carpets upstairs. She remembered those few days as great fun - Ellie crawling on the lawn while the adults pruned the fruit trees and tackled the weeds; the three of them laughing over spaghetti Bolognese and red wine late into the evening. Sherlock was supposed to join them, but he had been called to Budapest to investigate an art fraud.

Having solved the mystery surrounding Julia Roy's death, he had, in fact, taken very little further interest in the house, deferring to Molly on all decisions. On the only occasion that he visited, very reluctantly and just for the day, he had shown more interest in the gardens and had spent some time examining the ruined stone structure that ran along one side of it, pronouncing it to be a former stable. At Molly's tentative suggestion that it might make a good laboratory, he had wrinkled his nose dismissively, although she had seen him casting a thoughtful look in that direction as they left at the end of the day.

And so Molly usually visited Prior's Holt alone. If she wasn't working at the weekend, it became second nature to leave Bart's on a Friday evening and hurry to London Victoria to get the Eastbourne train. Sherlock knew by now not to expect her home – whether he minded or not, she had no real idea. Since he often disappeared for two or three days on end, she assumed not.

Each time she visited, she would take more random items with her – laundry, spare clothes and various small ornaments - justifying such decisions by the fact that there wasn't really enough room at Baker Street for them, especially with Sherlock's experiments cluttering the space. She stocked the kitchen cupboards with tins, tea and coffee, just for emergencies, and then it seemed only sensible to plug in the high-spec fridge-freezer and stock that too. She pottered around the art and antique shops of Arundel and ended up purchasing pictures to hang on the walls and some second-hand books to put on the library shelves. She felt an odd sensation as she sat in the sitting room during sunny late-spring evenings, sipping coffee and looking out over the unruly garden…and came to recognise it as peace. Peace, and a pleasing sense of ownership.

And as the months passed, she became ever more reluctant to let a stranger live there.

* * *

Molly saved and closed her completed pathologist's report and leaned back in her chair, frowning. Her gaze fell idly onto her desk calendar, and then sharpened. Friday night. She felt a by-now familiar pang of guilt. Friday night – and just for once she wasn't rushing off to Victoria Station, but only because she was on duty again tomorrow night.

She left Bart's, walking slowly as the rush hour crowds thronged about her. For some reason, she wasn't inclined to take the tube on this mild June evening. Instead she turned off the main road to wind her way through the back streets she knew so well – the secret routes and short cuts used by genuine Londoners to avoid the tourist crowds.

It was a perfect evening in London for once – a blue cloudless sky, a breeze just gentle enough to mitigate the early summer heat. It ruffled the sweaty strands of hair sticking to her forehead and gave her that little tingle of energy that she always associated with London and Sherlock. She felt her stride lengthening, her spine straightening and her head lifting with renewed confidence as the stresses of the day began to fall away from her. There was always a sense of possibility thrumming through this city – she could go anywhere, do anything, could stay out all night if she wanted to. The unpredictability energised her.

It was at times like this that she most appreciated why Sherlock was so attached to this rambling, messy, complicated and yet vibrant city. How could she ever contemplate leaving it?

And yet…she loved Prior's Holt too. She could build a life for herself there – find a job in Sussex, come back to her beautiful house each night. She could build an entire day of images – waking in that lovely bedroom, having breakfast in the pretty green room, pottering around the garden among the herbs and vegetables and flowers that she would grow, cooking in her new modern kitchen, reading in the library, relaxing in the sitting room at the end of a happy, busy day…

The only problem was that not one of those images included Sherlock…

Was she some kind of fool, building a life on fantasy, on something that didn't – that _couldn't _– exist?

Her thoughts troubled her as she walked across the city, taking the familiar route to the Crematorium's Garden of Remembrance. She walked across the grass, her eyes closing briefly as she remembered the day of the funeral.

Greg's simple wooden cross and plaque had been provided by his colleagues, but Molly had purchased the bench that faced it across the narrow path. She figured that if she was spending time there every Friday night, Greg would want her to be comfortable. Although, she reminded herself guiltily, the visits had dwindled since the house had come along.

As she knelt in front of the cross to remove some old flowers and tidy the little plot, she realised that it had been at least five weeks since she'd last been here. She wondered if anyone else ever visited him. She had met Sally here once in the early months after his death, but no one since. She didn't think Sherlock or John did, but then they were less sentimental about memorials.

She cleaned up the area and placed her own bouquet in the pot, arranging the flowers as carefully as she might in a vase at home. She didn't altogether know why she bothered – Greg had never been that interested in flowers. A thin smile crossed her face as she reflected that he'd probably prefer her to stick a tin of his favourite lager in the flower pot instead. It was just habit - that was all. It was what you did when visiting a grave. You brought flowers. And she always did.

Like the cross, the plaque was simple, stating only his name. She ran her finger delicately over the engraving, spelling out his name, before standing abruptly and going over to sit on the bench.

She sat quietly for a while, before letting out a tired sigh. "Could do with your advice right now, Greg."

She wondered briefly whether he could actually hear her – whether the Church was right and he was sitting in some other dimension, looking at her this very moment – and then just as quickly dismissed the idea. Cold logic told her that she was merely talking into an unheeding silent nothingness, possibly just voicing her thoughts out loud to give them clarity. Rather as Sherlock still did with his skull if she was not around to listen.

But if – _if_! – by some improbable miracle, Greg _could_ hear her, there was just a chance that he would understand better than anyone else. After all, he'd spent years of his life dreaming of a lifestyle that was out of his reach – torn between London and the Caribbean beach life he craved. She knew that his colleagues and John had been dismissive, frequently teasing him about a ridiculous fantasy. But, in reality, had his dreams been any less realistic than hers?

"I told John I didn't want to change him," she said now. "And I _don't_. But it's like -," she swallowed. "It's like – did you ever have a sudden dream that you never ever suspected you had? Does that even make sense? I mean, I _never knew_ I would one day want to live in a country cottage and grow things. And _why_? I was never a country girl before. I should be bored senseless, like I was with Tom…but I'm not. Does that mean…?"

Her voice faded away as a possibility chilled her. Was she _growing out_ of Sherlock in some horrible way? Was she turning into the type of woman who should have married Tom after all?

She could almost hear Greg's practical voice, cutting through her doubts. _It wasn't the lifestyle that was the problem, it was Tom. He wasn't Sherlock. That's all._

"But then, in that case, shouldn't I want the same things as Sherlock? If I love him…"

_Don't be so silly, Molly._ She could sense him laughing in a gentle but reproving manner. _You know it's not as simple as that._

She sighed, acknowledging this. She and Sherlock were not kids, just starting out and growing together; they were adults with distinct personalities and strong minds. And just because she loved him, it didn't follow that she would naturally share his likes and dislikes. Nor should she allow herself to be subsumed by them just for his sake. To be fair to Sherlock, he had never tried to influence her. He hadn't even talked about the house or criticised her for spending so much time away from home. And maybe that was the real problem…

"Wish Mycroft had never given us the house. I don't know why he did it. If he'd wanted us to have the money, he could've just sold it. But Mycroft never does anything without having some kind of agenda – he's so _Machiavellian_. And _why_ did he thank me? I can't think he wanted me to treat it simply as a business - _no_, I'm _sure_ he wanted it to be our home. But how can he _still _know so little about his own brother?"

She leaned her head back, closing her eyes as she turned her face towards the setting sun. It was peaceful here, the sounds of London muffled into a false distance by the trees. Opening her eyes again, she spotted a male sparrow hopping on the ground near Greg's cross, stopping briefly to cock his head at her in inquiry. As if waiting for her to go on. She had the impression that, if she held out her hand, the little creature would hop onto it.

She sniggered slightly at her ridiculous imaginings. "I must be getting soft, Greg. I've started seeing you in birds and small animals. I'm turning into bloody Snow White and I'm supposed to be a _scientist_!"

She shut her eyes again – and suddenly he was there, right before her, his dark eyes crinkled with amusement, the familiar bark of his gruff voice as he laughed at her. The image was so vivid that she opened her eyes, half expecting to see him there, standing right in front of her, the low sun glinting in his silver hair…

The ache of disappointment in her throat was harsh enough to bring tears to her eyes. "Oh, _Greg_. _He _came back from the dead. Why can't _you_?"

She sat on, as the sun sank in the west, never needing the presence of her best friend more.

* * *

It was past nine by the time she returned to Baker Street. She had expected it to be darkness, as no doubt Mycroft's case would keep Sherlock out all night. However, the lights were on. She hurried up the stairs, her heart lightening. Perhaps the case was already solved and they'd have some time to themselves after all.

As she opened the flat door, she stopped dead. There was a small but distinct trail of blood on the wooden floorboards, leading in the direction of the bathroom.

"_Sherlock_!" She flung down her bag and sprinted towards it. His stained jacket and shirt lay in a pile. The bathroom door was open, and he was sitting on the side of the bath, clumsily attempting to stem the flow from a nasty cut on his right upper arm.

"Here." She took the towel from him and turned him slightly so she could see better in the bathroom light as she pressed down on the wound. The flow was already slowing and the cut itself was not as alarming as she had feared – it was the type of injury that tended to bleed a lot for no good reason. "Looks like a knife wound."

"Kitchen knife. We apprehended a witness for Mycroft in a subway. I wasn't expecting him to be armed." He sounded startled and she bit her lip against the obvious response that it wasn't like him _not_ to be prepared for anything.

"Stay there," she ordered and hurried out into the kitchen to find the necessarily well-stocked first aid kit. Amongst the usual contents, it included a number of sterile surgical instruments and drugs usually only available on prescription – Molly liked to be prepared for almost anything when it came to Sherlock. On this occasion, she didn't think sutures would be necessary.

She cleaned the wound out and carefully examined its depth and severity before covering it with some steri-strips and a bandage. "You got lucky this time. His aim was off."

He nodded in agreement. "I was holding him on the ground at the time while John called for backup."

"_John_ was there? Didn't he see _this_?"

He was quiet for a minute. "He wasn't there at that moment, so he didn't know about the stabbing. He came along a few minutes later, and I could tell it wasn't serious, so there didn't seem much point in bothering him."

She could tell from the tone of his voice that there was a little more to it than that.

"But what about the knife? And I can't believe he didn't _notice_ you were bleeding! How could he _not_, when it had come through the jacket?"

Sherlock paused again. "It wasn't bleeding so much at that stage. I knocked it open a bit on the doorframe here. As for the knife, I've got it in my jacket pocket. I'd knocked the suspect out to disarm him, so John was focused on him. He was too busy to ask why I'd knocked him out, and he went with him in the ambulance."

"And it didn't occur to you to go with them and get this looked at?" she scolded as she placed the last piece of adhesive tape.

"I'm allergic to hospitals. You know that."

Her lips curled into a reluctant smile at this clumsy attempt at humour. "A&amp;E departments, anyway. You don't seem to object to mortuaries." Unable to resist, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his pale shoulder, feeling him shiver slightly at the delicate touch.

"So, who was he? And what was Mycroft's case – is it over already?"

The disinterest in his voice was clear. "Nothing of interest, as it turned out. Just a case of mistaken identity. And yes, it's over."

She could tell that she would get no more from him about the case; she'd have to quiz John tomorrow. He appeared to be bothered by something and suddenly shivered again, goose-bumps covering his bare arms despite the warmth of the evening.

"Come on, you idiot." She stood up and grabbed his hand, tugging him with her. He went obediently as she led them through the flat and into the bedroom. His bloodied clothes and the knife could wait.

He sat on the edge of the bed as she opened a drawer to find his softest old t-shirt and some jogging trousers. "Here you go, change into these. I'll pop your suit and shirt down to the dry cleaners in the morning." She glanced at his face, frowning at the shuttered expression. "Have you eaten at all today?"

"How did he catch me out?" he asked, suddenly.

She blinked, not sure how to react. "Well, I suppose if you thought that you had him secured…"

"I should have _known_ he had that knife," he interrupted, almost as if she had never spoken. "It's not something I usually miss."

She perched on the side of the bed, cupping his cheek to make him look at her. "It happens. We all have bad days."

"Not _me_."

She sighed, shaking her head. "No, I suppose you don't. And I guess it wouldn't occur to you that _just maybe_ you were a little light-headed because you were hungry? That, shocking though it may seem, you _are_ actually human and not quite as young as you once were? These days you _can't_ go for hours without any food or water and _then _expect to come out well from a scuffle in the street."

He was silent for a moment. "You used to bring me coffee and a sandwich at the hospital. You know I forget otherwise."

She paused, a little taken-aback. It was true that in the early days of their relationship, if he came into Bart's, she would try to find time to fetch him something to eat and drink. At first, he'd been dismissive, claiming he was too busy to be distracted by food, but then he'd gobble down half a sandwich or gulped a bottle of water while discussing his theories with her, and she'd counted it a victory. She'd never tried to nag Sherlock into better habits, but had tried to put the necessary nutrition in his way as much as possible. It had never occurred to her that he had noticed – and even appreciated - her efforts.

Just recently, she'd been very busy at work, hardly having time for a break herself…but, on the other hand, she'd been busy back _then_ too - and she'd _still_ found the time to be with him. If not during the day, then back at home…

She smiled at him now and leaned in to give him a gentle kiss. "Well, we can eat now. How about a Thai takeaway and something really stupid on the telly -."

She went to get up, but he suddenly pulled her down into his arms. He was still trembling slightly, but his body felt hot and hard against hers. "I don't want to eat. Not right now."

She raised an eyebrow, even as her heart beat faster at the intense look in his eyes. "You sure? I don't want you flaking out on me."

He lifted a shaking hand to push back her hair before letting it trail gently but purposefully down her neck. "Not a chance…"

* * *

Much later, they _did_ eat, raiding the kitchen for whatever they could find, since neither fancied having to get dressed for long enough to have something delivered. Sherlock sat up in bed with a bowl of salty popcorn, a dish of sliced apples and a jar of Nutella balanced on his lap. Molly lay on her side, dipping apples into the chocolate spread and munching them with an occasional blissful sigh.

She felt happy and languid and well-loved. Sherlock could be surprisingly carefree in bed, but tonight he had been intense and passionate – precisely the mood she had needed him to be in to match her own turbulent thoughts. The sex had been cathartic, for _both_ of them she suspected. The tension seemed to have seeped out of him, although shortly after setting in bed, his phone had beeped and he had become absorbed by whatever message he had received, typing a long reply one-handed.

After a while, he put the phone down. "And you have the nerve to criticise _my_ diet," he grumbled as she dipped another piece of apple in the Nutella, but then he ruffled her untidy hair before snatching the nicely smeared fruit from her fingers.

"Oy!" she murmured, feeling too lazy to protest very strongly. "Get your own."

"I thought I _had_. I wish to point out that I sliced the apples. If I'd known you were going to waste them in this disgustingly sweet stuff…" He ate the Nutella-smeared apple slice with every sign of enjoyment and then reached out for a handful of popcorn.

She wrinkled her nose at the combination before giving in and grabbing some herself. "Salty popcorn should _not _work with something sweet. And yet, weirdly, it does. How on earth did we end up with this stuff anyway? _I_ wouldn't have bought salty, and _you_ never go shopping."

"Evidence," he replied smoothly, helping himself to some more.

She stared up at him, her hand stilling in its journey to her mouth. "You… _seriously_?"

He grinned at the expression on her face. "Not required in the end. The suspect confessed."

She relaxed, but only slightly. "_Please_ tell me you didn't experiment on it or something."

"Mmm." The response was a little too non-committal for her liking, but before she could get any clarification, his phone buzzed once more and he picked it up, frowning at the message.

"John?" she queried.

"Yes." The reply was terse and she could tell she wouldn't get any more out of him. It was obvious that something about tonight's scuffle was still bothering him. He switched his phone off without replying to John's text and lay down, scattering the bowls as he did so.

She moved them onto her bedside table before setting down again. Sherlock wasn't the cuddly type most of the time, but today he reached over and pulled her head down into the hollow just below his shoulder. Whether this was for comfort or simply so she couldn't see his face, she wasn't sure.

She ran a hand slowly over his chest, lingering at the little dip just below the base of his throat. It was a favourite spot – the start of his beautiful long neck - and she followed up her caress by reaching up to plant a small kiss there. He rumbled in quiet appreciation, his arm around her shoulders tightening in response.

"Let's go out somewhere tomorrow morning," she whispered into his neck. "We'll have breakfast out, and then go to a museum or a park or something. I don't mind. Just…let's be together."

He didn't reply, but the pressure of his hand on her back was enough for her. She buried her face in his neck, feeling happier than she had done for months… although part of her still wondered how long the feeling of contentment would last.


	44. Chapter 44

**Aargh! This took forever. Usual disclaimers, yada yada**

* * *

**Chapter 44**

No matter how late she went to sleep, Molly was pre-conditioned these days to be wide awake the very moment her eyes opened in the morning. It was one of the perils of being a forensic pathologist who had to be prepared to be called in to work at all hours. However hard she tried, she could never doze comfortably or drop back off again…which was most annoying when you were lying next to a deliciously warm body. She opened her eyes and received once again the momentary shock of realising that the warm body belonged to the man who had dominated her romantic fantasies for nearly a decade – and as a hopeless dream for the first few years. It was a feeling of pure happiness that had never faded.

She glanced at the clock: 06:34. Sherlock was still sleeping peacefully. He was facing her, locks of hair falling over his face – it badly needed cutting again. She noticed, for the first time, a couple of silver strands, shining among the dark curls, and wondered if he had spotted this sign of approaching middle age. Quite probably – he didn't miss anything…usually. Like most people, he looked younger in sleep, but there were faint lines of exhaustion around his eyes that made her wonder how long he'd lain awake after she'd dropped off last night.

She ran her eyes over his upper body, frowning as she noted a few new bruises from his latest skirmish. Her eyes lingered for a moment on his bandaged arm; she remembered him saying that he'd pocketed the knife and wondered whether she needed to test it for bacteria. All she needed was for Sherlock to get some nasty infection. She'd examine the cut later.

Not wishing to disturb his peaceful slumber, she slipped out of bed as quietly as possible, grabbing her bathrobe and shutting the door behind her.

Sherlock's discarded jacket and shirt were still screwed up by the bathroom door, both stiff with blood on one sleeve. She emptied his jacket pockets onto the kitchen table, using a clean tea towel to remove the knife and place it in a plastic food bag. Having established that the damage to the clothes was too great for repair, she bundled them into the bin before turning her attention back to the knife. As Sherlock had said, it was a standard kitchen knife – rather worryingly, the type of heavy knife used to cut up raw meat. With a sigh, she dug out a jiffy bag, dropped in the food bag containing the knife, sealed it, wrote a few notes and dropped the package in her work bag for testing later on. With any luck, as the cut had bled freely, there wouldn't be any infection.

As she waited for the kettle to boil, she dug her phone out of her bag and sent a quick text to John before she could think better of it.

**Drinks soon? MH.**

She wasn't expecting a reply for some time – John wasn't great at early rising at the best of times and with Ellie occasionally wakeful at nights, the Watsons cherished their Saturday morning lie-ins. But, to her surprise, the answer came almost immediately.

**Monday 6PM Shears? JW.**

This referred to the Hand and Shears, a curiously-named pub close to Bart's, where John and Molly, along with Greg, had met up frequently over the years since the early days of their acquaintance. Even now, a meeting there could be code for a request to discuss something concerning Sherlock. As far as they knew, the man himself had never been there – not to drink, at any rate.

**Sounds good. You OK? MH.**

**Called out to patient early hours. Heart attack. Home now. JW.**

She winced in sympathy. John currently worked as a GP at a large central London practice, but part of the deal with his colleagues meant that they would cover his office hours whenever he was required on a case, provided he took more than his fair share of any out-of-hours problems. Since he needed the financial security of a full time job, he couldn't refuse – and, to be fair to them, his colleagues were usually quite supportive of his sudden disappearances.

**OK. Have a quiet weekend. MH.**

As she sent this, Sherlock emerged from the bedroom, yawning and rubbing his dishevelled hair.

She slipped her phone in her bathrobe pocket and turned to get another mug from the cupboard. "Didn't think you'd be up for hours yet. You looked tired."

"Mmm." He subsided onto the sofa, stretched out in his usual fashion, eyes closed and hands folded under his chin.

She made the coffee strong and sweet, just as he liked it, and brought the two mugs over to the coffee table, giving him a look of amused affection as she bent to place them close by. The way he grabbed her hand the moment she put them down suggested he'd been paying more attention than she had thought, despite the closed eyes. He was clearly in a playful mood this morning.

She smiled, allowing him to pull her down onto the sofa on top of him, arranging her to his satisfaction, with her body sliding into the gap between his and the back cushions and her head resting comfortably on his shoulder. Usually Sherlock took over the sofa when he was in 'thinking mode' – he could spend hours there, and Molly didn't disturb him. But, just occasionally, he had non-vocal ways of showing that he didn't want to be alone, and this was one of them.

She smoothed her palm over the soft material of his silk dressing gown, running it lazily over his chest and up to his neck. "You haven't got anything urgent on, have you? Only, it'd be nice to have a day together. We don't need to go out… In fact…" Lying here in such close proximity, she could feel her heart beat speed up a little and she moved her hand the other way, partly to tease and partly to tell if he was as interested as she was.

Quick as a cat, he caught at her hand, holding it tight against his chest. "Actually, I had a plan…"

"Oh?" She lifted her head to see his face; his voice sounded unusually tentative for Sherlock.

He had moved his head to look down at her, and his expression was a little guarded, his eyes searching hers, as they always did when he was unsure. "You've grown quite…fond of that house. Haven't you?"

Molly had learned a long time ago that there was no point attempting to lie to Sherlock. "I have," she admitted, meeting his eyes with absolute honesty. "I know it's probably silly, but it's such a beautiful spot and I suppose… well, I guess I just like to dream about the perfect country cottage." She laughed, trying to lighten the atmosphere. "But, look, we _did_ agree that we would run it as a long-term let, and it's probably ready now…"

Her voice trailed off as he looked at her, his eyes darkest blue today. A small crooked smile crept onto his serious face, softening his features. "Well, why don't you show it to me? Today."

Her breath caught in surprise. "_Really_? You want to see it? Oh -," she suddenly remembered, her heart sinking. "I can't. Got work tonight. By the time we get there, there'd hardly be any time. Although there's no reason why _you_ can't go and have a look if you want to."

He shook his head briskly and sat up suddenly, pulling her up with him. "Tell them you can't go in. Call in a favour. You've covered for enough colleagues."

"Well, I _suppose_ I could try…" His enthusiasm was infectious.

"No _suppose_ about it. Ring that man – what's he called? David. That's the one. Owes you three shifts already and he's building up to ask you to cover for his son's sports day. Father of three young children, so no plans on a Saturday night and he'll feel too guilty to say no. Ring him. Or I will. We can stay there tonight."

As she stared at him in surprise, he jumped to his feet and took a gulp of the scalding black coffee, wincing as it singed his mouth. "Come _on_, Molly! No time to waste."

* * *

"It was _weird_!" Molly told John over a pint on Monday night. "I mean, OK, it was _nice_ weird, but still _weird_…"

She paused, thinking over the last couple of days. Sherlock couldn't have been more attentive to her if he'd tried. He appeared to love the house, seeming to approve of every decorating decision she'd made by herself. He listened attentively as she took him through rooms that he had already seen on the one occasion he'd visited but had shown scant interest in at the time. She would have suspected him of putting on a big act just to make her happy – and possibly he was - but he also made some sensible suggestions about where to place furniture and ornaments for best effect, which suggested that he was at least paying attention. He'd even shown some interest in the one room that left her cold, commenting on its potential usefulness as a study and general storeroom for various objects currently strewn around the living room at 221B.

Once more, he'd spent quite a lot of time in the garden, investigating the old beehives with apparent fascination. He also spent more time exploring the ruined stable in the garden; Molly watched from the sitting room, her heart lifting at the sight of him gazing thoughtfully at the structure, running his sharp eyes over it and no doubt measuring the dimensions perfectly in his mind.

It had been a beautiful, sunny weekend, and they had walked down to the coast on Saturday to paddle in the freezing cold sea and search for fossils, before returning to eat fish and chips with a cold crisp Sauvignon Blanc in the garden, laughing over shared memories of weird cases late into the night. On the Sunday, after a lazy morning in bed, they had tackled the lung-busting hike from Birling Gap up onto Beachy Head; after which they had stopped for a drink at the nearby pub, where Sherlock identified four potentially suicidal drinkers to the barman, who had called the local police in a world-weary manner.

They had returned to London on Sunday night; Sherlock spending the train journey sketching out a rough plan of the stable and making notes on the work that would need to be done to convert it into a working laboratory. Molly had felt relaxed and happy, with absolutely no sense of guilt about the fact that a father-of-three had had to spend his Saturday night at the morgue in her place. The following morning, when she left early for a day as an expert witness at court, Sherlock was lounging on the sofa, apparently absorbed by an old tome on bee-keeping that he'd uncovered from somewhere.

"It was just a lovely weekend," Molly reflected, sipping her beer thoughtfully. "Sherlock at his very best. I'm not sure he could've given me a nicer weekend if he'd tried. What do you suppose he was up to?"

"What makes you think he _was_?" John asked, after a pause. "Up to anything, I mean. He's a human being, like the rest of us, despite appearances to the contrary. Even _Sherlock_ likes some time out sometimes."

Even as he said it, his voice sounded more than a little doubtful.

Molly looked over her shoulder and lowered her voice. "John, what _did_ happen on Friday night? With Mycroft's case. Sherlock said something about a case of mistaken identity?"

"What happened?" John gave a humourless laugh, not quite meeting her eyes. "What happened was that we fucked up. Big time."

His eyes flitted quickly around the quiet pub. They had deliberately found a table some distance away from the other drinkers.

Molly drew a shaky breath. "Is that why you wanted to meet up?"

John gazed moodily into his drink. "It was a complete mess – a total shit-storm. Did Sherlock tell you that the man he knocked out was working undercover for Mycroft?"

"_Mycroft_! How on earth did _that_ happen?"

John shrugged. "It should've been a simple case. Mycroft wanted us to retrieve some information from a blackmailer. Anonymous messages to say this bloke had got something embarrassing on a member of the Cabinet, was threatening to sell it to the tabloids. Must have been genuine I guess, or Mycroft would've ignored it."

Molly frowned. "Sounds fairly…tame. I'm surprised Mycroft even cared – unless it's a major scandal that'd bring down the entire government? Anyway, it's not something that would usually interest _Sherlock_."

"No, well, Mycroft only called Sherlock in when his own people failed on several occasions to retrieve the evidence." John paused, taking a gulp of his beer. "I think the guy was more irritating than anything, bragging about the fact that they couldn't catch him. When I went through the file with Mycroft, I didn't think he was seriously concerned, just impatient to get it sorted out. Bloke identified with Sherlock, kept describing himself as his apprentice, kept telling Mycroft that he should recruit him etc. Mycroft wanted Sherlock to identify who it was and pay a visit – frighten him a bit. Sherlock was intrigued enough to want to meet this one."

There was a note of surprise in John's tone and Molly nodded in agreement. In recent years, a number of crazed fans had based their lifestyles on Sherlock – the deerstalker (which she could not understand at all), the sharp suits, the hairstyle. There were even some weirdos who'd posed as clients just so they could get access to Baker Street and get photographs, presumably so they could reproduce the look of 221B in their own homes. Sherlock could usually spot this type at a glance and even Molly and Mrs. Hudson had become adept at spotting the signs and stopping the Sherlock wannabes at the front door. One or two had required a stern word from a police officer, but most seemed harmless. The petty criminals were more of a nuisance, bragging about their replication of Sherlock's methods to steal or obtain information fraudulently. Sally Donovan had a file on them and kept a weather eye on anything that looked likely to escalate, while Sherlock usually ignored them. Most of them were far less efficient than they believed, and none of them were anywhere near the league of Moriarty, Magnussen or Janine.

"Anyway," John went on. "There were a few random clues in the information Mycroft had on him – 'clues' for Sherlock, anyway. Too difficult for his own people to track the guy down. Slightly challenging for Sherlock but not impossible – some e-mail messages, a few anonymous letters, a couple of recordings with the voice clearly disguised. Textbook for Sherlock – took him a couple of hours to get a name and possible location. Bloke wasn't supposed to fight back – wasn't the type, by Sherlock's reckoning. Bit of a physical coward, and anyway he was just some geeky computer type, obsessed with meeting Sherlock. We'd just walk into this flat in Acton and get the files, then unsettle him a bit to make him shut up and be a good boy in future." His voice trailed away as he stared at his pint in apparent disbelief.

"So…?" Molly nudged him impatiently after a few minutes.

John stirred and smiled at her. "Sorry. Just thinking it over and still can't believe what happened. Sherlock was _completely wrong_ about the man's identity and location. _Everything_ – all his deductions – were completely _off_. Not only was our blackmailer _not _there, but he'd never been anywhere near the place. The man who _should_ have been there was completely different – and much more dangerous. A Ukrainian double-agent who'd been selling that country's military secrets to the highest bidder and would be desperate enough to kill anyone who came anywhere near him. Sherlock accidentally disturbed one of Mycroft's men, who'd been waiting to apprehend the Ukrainian in a subway near the flat and was expecting a potentially violent man to arrive any minute. Bit unfortunate that he pounced on Sherlock instead, who then knocked him out before I could even get there."

"Where were you?"

"Sherlock was slightly ahead of me, as always. Just as I was about to follow him into the subway, I got an emergency signal from Mycroft that delayed me. Wanted to know what the hell we were doing smack bang in the middle of his own agent's job. And then I heard Sherlock shouting to me to call for back-up. In all the confusion, the Ukrainian agent – who _had_ been on his way to his flat – was seen to slip away again. Mycroft was _furious_."

Molly frowned. "Sherlock _never_ gets a deduction wrong. You must have been given the wrong information file, surely?"

John hesitated. "I'm not sure."

"Oh, _come on_! You know Sherlock – he'd _never_ have made such a big mistake!"

"Yes, but…" John pushed his half-drunk beer aside and looked Molly directly in the eye. "Look, Molly, it's not the first time recently. There have been incidents…"

"What are you on about?" Molly leaned across the table, meeting John's troubled gaze. "_What_ 'incidents'?"

His eyes flitted away from hers in apparent embarrassment. "Oh, I don't know, Molly! Just a couple of things he's missed. Minor matters, nothing really serious. He's – he's just not as sharp as he was."

She took a deep breath to calm herself down before speaking very slowly. "The file. _Was_ it wrong?"

John met her eyes again. "Honestly? No. Not as far as I could see. We didn't have it with us – Mycroft kept it. But Sherlock had looked at all the evidence, made his deductions. When I was taking the agent to the hospital – I was worried about his head injury and didn't want to leave him – Sherlock asked me to check some things in the file again. So after I made sure the guy was OK, I went back to Mycroft's office. He was still there – on disaster control, thanks to our bungled operation. And the file was exactly the same."

"You're certain? Definitely no changes?"

"Not that I could see. The information Sherlock wanted me to find was exactly as we both remembered it. I texted it to him." John shrugged, sounding a bit grumpy as he bent his head over his pint again. "Between trying to mollify Mycroft and dealing with that heart attack case, I didn't get much sleep on Friday night. Was knackered most of the weekend. I don't know where _Sherlock_ ended up."

Molly hesitated, wondering how much she should reveal. "Did you… did you know he'd been stabbed by Mycroft's agent?"

From the way John's head shot up, he genuinely had no idea. "_What_? No, I _didn't_. It was dark, but… _why _didn't he tell me?"

"He's OK," she added, quickly. "A flesh wound, upper arm. Slash with a kitchen knife."

John frowned. "A _kitchen_ knife? What on earth would an experienced agent be doing with _that_? I mean, Mycroft wanted the Ukrainian apprehended alive and unhurt if possible, and there are far less messy ways to overpower someone. And why a _kitchen_ knife? That's a weapon that people use when they're unprepared."

"And why did he jump on Sherlock anyway?" asked Molly. "I mean, _anyone_ could have been walking through a public subway."

"Well, he'd received intelligence that the guy he wanted was just a few seconds away – and unfortunately Sherlock resembled him very strongly." John paused. "I did get the impression that Mycroft was just as angry with his agent as he was with us."

He downed his pint and stood up. "I need another of those. You joining me?"

She nodded absently, staring at the table in thought. Sherlock had quite obviously been confused that he had got things so badly wrong on Friday night…but _had _he?

"There's something very odd about all this," she told John when he came back with fresh drinks.

He nodded, but his eyes wouldn't meet hers.

She sighed impatiently. "Alright, out with it. You really _do_ think that Sherlock made a mistake. Don't you," she told him grimly, and it wasn't a question.

John was silent for a moment longer, before bursting out: "But look at the evidence! I would _swear _that it was the same file that we looked at before. When I arrived, Mycroft had called in a team to work on it, and they had made some progress. They'd identified some possible suspects and were narrowing them down. The person that Sherlock identified wasn't on their list, but they'd also tracked _him_ down. Currently serving a sentence for possession in Australia, and he's never been anywhere near that flat." He paused. "Sherlock seems to have got the profile right – the likely suspect_ is_ a physical coward and likely to back down quickly – but then any profiler could've worked that out. What worries me is that, from that profile and the clues, he'd identified both the wrong man _and_ the wrong location. And _that's_ not remotely like him."

They were silent for a moment, both staring moodily at their drinks.

"Someone's messing with him," Molly said, eventually.

"Or maybe…" John began hesitantly.

"No!" She gave him a furious look. "There's no 'maybe' about it. _Someone is messing with Sherlock_. Trying to dent his confidence – to stop him believing in himself." She paused, thinking. "Maybe…maybe _that_ was why he was happy to go down to Sussex with me. Maybe he's starting to think that he should retire. But _who's_ messing around – and _why_? Now, tell me _everything_ you know about those 'minor incidents'."

* * *

"What the _bloody hell_ are you playing at?"

"Ah." Mycroft took off his reading glasses and looked up at her enquiringly. "Nice to see you, Molly… although I take it that this isn't a social visit? It's quite alright, Alfred," he added with a smile to the elderly porter, who was standing by the door, giving Molly an appalled look.

Admittedly, she _had_ burst through the door of the Diogenes the moment it had opened and had more-or-less frog-marched the porter along the corridor to Mycroft's private room. The sheer fury emitting from every pore of her being had probably stopped any of the security guards in their tracks.

As the man shut the door behind him, Mycroft smirked in a way that was guaranteed to increase her anger. "I take it I can't offer you tea? Coffee? A seat?"

She _had _been about to sit down but, at his offer, began to pace the floor instead. It was a useful way to work off her energy. "You know _perfectly well_ what this is about."

"Assume for a moment," he said, coldly, "that I do _not_."

She turned on him, holding up her right hand, fingers splayed and thumb hidden. "Four! Four incidents so far! Three of them fairly minor, so he could easily pass them off as slips of memory…except that they _weren't_, were they? This is Sherlock we're talking about! He doesn't _get _slips in his memory – not by accident."

She put her hands on his desk, leaning close to his face. "How did you do it, then? Set up cases, arrange clients… give him certain information but then change facts after the event…but how? How to do it so that he won't realize what's happening? And then this latest case…" She shook her head. "There was no Ukrainian agent, was there? Or if there was, that agent wasn't there to apprehend him. It was all set up to make Sherlock look like he'd messed up."

He was still looking at her with an infuriating air of absolute calm. "Even if I was prepared to admit to that ridiculous suggestion, it would make no -."

"How did you do it?" she interrupted, angrily. "_How_? That file…John was convinced it was _exactly_ the same."

Mycroft held her gaze for a moment longer before sighing and rubbing his forehead. "It was…almost exactly the same. There were minor discrepancies between the two. Extremely minor grammatical changes in the letters and dialogue that _John_ would not have noticed, but..."

"But Sherlock _would_," she finished for him.

His silence was enough of a confirmation.

Suddenly exhausted, she sunk into a nearby chair, rubbing her forehead. "I knew it had to be you. See, I _knew_ Sherlock wouldn't make such mistakes, but who could possibly fool him? No one else clever enough… But _why_? _That's_ what I don't get. Why on earth would you do it? What are you trying to achieve?"

"What do you _want_, Molly?"

She looked up, startled. "Well, I _want_ you to tell the _truth_. For once," she added, meaningfully.

He leaned back in his chair, looking as cold as she'd ever seen him. "_No_, what do you want out of _life_? You can't convince me that you want to carry on like this. Never knowing when you'll see him. Every time you say goodbye, wondering whether it'll be for the last time. Half-expecting and dreading that call from John every time Sherlock is away – that call to tell you that _this time_ he wasn't quite fast enough, not quite _clever _enough?"

"My God," she whispered, staring at him. "You really don't have much confidence in Sherlock, do you?"

He sighed, suddenly looking much older. "I have plenty of confidence in my brother. But there are others… Sherlock has attracted them in the past, and he will attract them in the future. Moriarty nearly destroyed him… but there _will _be others. _I know it_."

He drummed the desk with his fingertips, emphasizing each syllable.

"So this is some kind of – of perverted way to – _what_? Stop him from doing what he does best? Trying to convince him that he's not…"

She paused, not sure how to put it, but he jumped in. "Not invincible? Precisely. Because he is _not_. No one is. One day, he'll get it wrong, and I…" he paused, giving her a slightly shaky smile. "I told you once…that he had broken my heart. Remember?"

She looked up at him. "Yes." How could she forget? That day, in the prison, when Sherlock had finally told her that he loved her, had finally kissed her…before saying goodbye, expecting it to be forever.

Mycroft clenched his fists, his features hardening. "I cannot allow that to happen again."

She stared at him. It was a long time before she could form the words. "Was I… was I _always_ part of your plan?"

He looked at her uncomprehendingly.

"I mean -," she swallowed, "I mean, did you push him towards me? Towards someone _safe_? Someone to keep him on the – the 'straight-and-narrow'; someone to stop him from making the ultimate mistake? And then the house? A _nice, safe_ life in the country, focusing on his experiments? Is that part of your plan too? Oh, _God_!" She stood up, feeling her heart beating fast. "We really _are_ just pawns in your game, aren't we? Me, him, John, even Greg…"

She stopped as she saw the brief spasm of pain cross his expression before it hardened again. "I – I didn't mean Greg…"

"No -," he lifted a hand to stop her apology, although his voice was icy cold. "That's fair enough… although you are wrong. I told you before that you over-estimated my powers. Do you really suppose I'd have the power to make Sherlock fall in love with someone? Be sensible, Molly. But -," his voice grew warmer, more passionate, "- if you _saw_ that someone you loved was on a path destined for destruction and you had the means to prevent it, wouldn't _you_ take action?"

She was about to deny it, but paused and considered, trying to be fair to him.

"_All my life_, with Sherlock, I have _tried_." His voice was utterly weary as he stared at the desk, his eyes dull. "Rehab, more than once. Trying to give him a job, to give him _purpose_. Passing clients and cases his way when he insisted on going it alone. Constantly keeping an eye on him, preparing to send in support whenever things got too dangerous. Letting him deal with Moriarty on his own terms, even though I suspected it would be too much." He gave a curious little half-smile, slightly reminiscent of his brother's. "Even trying to keep Mummy off his back. And for _what_? All he _ever_ does is charge off into some fresh danger at the first opportunity. I thought you might keep him steady…" he added, his voice a little accusatory.

She laughed, incredulously. "Oh, so it's _my_ fault now, is it? Don't even _try_ it, Mycroft, because it's _bullshit_ and you know it. You can't manipulate people the way you do!" She shook her head. "This weekend, I thought – I _really thought_ that Sherlock was as excited about the house as I was… but it wasn't _real_, was it? He was being manipulated into believing that he should settle down and stop doing what he loves. Well, I'm _not_ having it! You – you say you love him, you say he broke your heart, but the truth _is_ you just don't _trust_ him. Not absolutely. He's always going to be 'little brother' in need of saving. Well, _I_ love him – and I _don't _want to save him. He doesn't need to be saved."

She walked towards the door, feeling oddly light-hearted. Possibly it was simply relief at knowing what was really going on; possibly even triumph at having got one over Mycroft. "Thanks for the house, by the way. We do love it and we're going to retire there one day… but not yet." She paused by the door, turning to look him in the eye. "We still have things to do in London. Sherlock still has a lot to do. And it'll take _much_ more than trying to convince him that he's losing the plot to make him move there before he's ready."

She smiled sweetly at him before turning back to the door.

"He already knew." Mycroft said, quietly.

She stopped, frowned at him. "What?"

Mycroft was looking down at his folded hands. "If you think that I had anything to do with the way you spent your weekend, you're quite wrong. Sherlock _already_ knew what I'd done on Friday night. The information he asked John to send him simply confirmed it."

He looked up at her with an ironic smile. "So you see… Sherlock really _did_ want to spend the weekend quietly with you in Sussex. You might want to consider the reasons why."

Speechless, she turned away from him and walked out of the door.


End file.
